And my CV says I have good communication skills...

I have become strangely nocturnal. I am writing my dissertation. I am re-reading, re-writing and re-organising my stream of consciousness and quotes. I came across this gem of confusion - a note by me. I'm sure I thought it was a very good point.

"To what extent is the linguistic exploration of the process of agreement rhetorical coercion and how much is it extent?"

Eh?

Something funny happened on the way to the train

The rain has forced the snails out onto the path. The Jolly Roger still hangs from the scaffolding. The mud came in through the holes in my shoes and turned my feet urchin black. It’s not unusual.

After an evening of chicken and chat, Monterrey and latino talk, midnight and the underground, London drizzle and cobbles was almost unexpected.

Waiting on the platform at Leicester Square for the train to come, and a drunken suit, pink shirt, grabs my hand and begins to twirl me around the platform, asks what my dance would be, if I could dance any, here on the platform, between the yellow line and the commuters and the couples. I decline. He presses my hand to his heart and asks my name. I guess his instead. It’s not Charles and it’s not Jim. He takes my hand, asks my name, asks if I’ve seen the most recent exhibition at the British Museum. Central London has a different class of drunk. He tells me the last exhibition was a disappointment. Not enough artefacts. All in the head apparently.

As he bounds aboard the train, I slip away to the westbound platform. I will be a story by the friends this morning, ‘remember when you started trying to dance with that girl at Leicester Square?’ It will be funny.

I am sober.

I get on the next train. The woman I sit next to brushes her coat down where my sleeve touched hers, looks at me significantly. The carriage is comatose and in limbo. Jaws are slack and we move with the train.

29th June 2008

I am listening to Kumbia Kings in the kitchen of a hostel in Zihuantenejo. I have a feeling that my enthusiasm for Mexican pop will not be shared once I hit London; the idea of Estos Celos blasting out of speakers in my beloved grey city seems on the verge of absurd. It fits here. It fits life here, and it is truly something I will miss. I spent an hour or two in a hostel in Mexico City where they were playing music made by boys with guitars and sepia videos, droning on about some emotional fuckwittery or other; just, in fact the type of music that I used to like very much. It just made me crave some unashamedly cheery sounding Mexican music; despite the fact that half the time they are singing about their depth of love and the other half is about how they’ve been cheated on, they are not afraid to use a few trumpets or cumbia rhythms to bring their point home. Britain will seem truly grey and quiet without this music blasting from every conceivable corner; shops, cars, taxis, buses, people. A bus that does not judder dangerously each time it breaks, a bus without mirrors, dedications to Christ and the Virgin de Guadalupe and rosary beads, without Te Quiero on the radio, people attempting to convert you or sell you something, is a boring bus indeed. Even better were the onboard buskers; Julia and I used to catch the bus together, attempting to sit as the bus lurched, without spilling our precious Oxxo coffee, and every now and again we were joined by a group of busking Mariachi, which cheered up the morning no end. It was sensible on their part too; the air-conditioned buses were a blessed relief in the Monterrey heat. Less enjoyable was sitting on a bus in Saltillo once and having a musically challenged young busker sing a group of love songs into my face, inches away. Minutes felt like hours.

It is strange to contemplate how it will be to be in London again; the difference in air and climate, attitudes and people, manners and tips, values and way of going about things, the size of the city, and how everyone and everything is packed in together; none of the room to sprawl luxuriously, lazily and unattractively, like the cities here. I imagine the strangest feeling will be the immediate familiarity of all of the above; all of that which seems far away and foreign now.

28th June 2008

Alex and I are travelling south down the coast. At each village or crumbly town we reach, at some point it invariably crosses my mind; what a strange corner of the world to end up in. I generally say it each time; considering my repetitive conversation, it’s a miracle she’s still with me. We are travelling in low season. The places we reach show signs of previous tourists; shops of inflatables and sarongs, T shirts and shot glasses, but we are in the Marie Celeste of travelling. We have hotels, buses, restaurants and pools to ourselves. Calculating the number of days it is since we have spoken to another person (waiters and ticket booth operators aside) has become a running joke, and more so, the number of hours we actually don’t say anything at all. We snatch Wimbledon matches and bad MTV programming while we can and while we are in lifeless towns and chose restaurants solely because they have other people in, but we take pleasure in all that seems funny solely to us too.

What a strange corner of the world we have ended up in; a village called Caleta de Campo on the edge of the pacific. We jumped aboard a second class bus as it was leaving for a five hour bus ride. We painfully felt the lack of air-conditioning although the open window blasted my face with salty air, leaves and water, which was the less technologically sophisticated version, but effective in its own way. The hours and minutes slipped past, dragged past and barely passed at all, as it became obvious that five hours was a rough estimate. After hitting the coastal road, the green jungle corridor either side of the road, the repetitive rising and falling of the road and corner after corner for hours on end was almost trance inducing and depending on whether you prefer my or Alex’s bus ramblings, a version of hell or real life (‘Which pill? The blue or the red? We took the wrong bloody one if we ended up on this bus’). Eight hours later we peeled ourselves off the seats and did the usual humiliating farce of getting the bags off the bus at the same time as ourselves. We had arrived.

The saving grace of the village is our view; yesterday evening, wiped out from the journey, all it took was a beer in hand and our view over the ocean; the swell and the rocks, an altogether more rugged view than Barra de Navidad, to regain contentment. We sat on the balcony, shuffling cards with no game in mind, and talked, until we could no longer see the difference between sky and sea; both were black.

We were woken in the early hours by a light storm – enormous flashes of light, eerily without rain or thunder. I lay in bed, my face up against the window, trying to keep my eyes open to watch the flashes of light over the bay. Finally the strange silent movie of a storm was broken and it hit in full force; thunder, rain and wind attacking the trees outside the hotel. Alex crawled across the room, wrapped in a sheet, to my bed. Her bed was soaked by the storm. The windows refused to close. The storm raged.

Now, the morning and in the light, post-storm and post-broken-sleep, we are gathering ourselves. It is time to pack again and stagger through the village. Another bus, another bus station, another town and place to see, afterall, in a week, I’ll be at work. Horrible thought.

No sleep last night, no sleep tonight

Just to keep up with the tradition, or boring thematic repetition of these posts, it’s Sunday evening again, Carne Asada outside again, and I shall tell you that in my dark room, light from the kitchen falls outside my door, and the first isolated words of Because by I Am Kloot are dropping into the silence.

I should be asleep. How I should be asleep. I have another early morning and a 5.15 alarm programmed into my mobile, but I have snoozed on and off throughout the day, and since sleep has now become vital, it has also become elusive. Julia is in her room next door in a haze of smoke, talking to Germany and I am here cross legged on my air bed, too warm to wear anything but a sheet. I have worn it nearly all day, tied around the back of my neck like a dress and sweeping to the floor in a satisfying fashion.

Last night was really good and lots of fun. Ana and Gigi had a bienvenida party of white - white clothes, and drink and food on a terrace with candles. A lovely atmosphere and combination of languages, wine and mojitos, white chocolate and smiley people on a warm evening. It all became a little bit hazy around the edges and we sped away from it all in an early morning taxi. I shall miss the friendliness and laughter, the switch of one second to a language or another, and translation, the interest and the difference.

Alison Krauss just started singing go to sleep little babe at me. I feel as if I should take her advice.

Oh Christ. Whitney Houston is back.

No words No word count

It is Sunday afternoon. I can smell carne asada outside, which is usual for a Sunday. Julia is playing a Whitney Houston song after I accidentally reminded her of its existence by shouting abuse at someone in the barrio who also feels the need to play it on a loop, along with I will survive. I am staring into the face of the fact that two thousand words I should have written this week are incomplete. More like a paltry thousand, in Spanish I feel I should point out. In my essay career so far, my best word-time ratio was a cool thousand in an hour, sat on the bottom bunk of the green room at Osborne Drive, Belfast, watched by my Dad’s old toy soldiers. Relatives in the rooms below lay prostrate on sofas recovering after Grandpa’s birthday meal, and when I finished, I padded down the staircase into the kitchen to discover that in the McDonald family a bit of bread and cheese, a glass of wine and some left over pudding is always squeezable in for supper, however late or large is lunch.

My word count has not been helped by the clocks stealing an hour of my time and the way I punctuate my days with useless activity; absentmindedly listening to BBC podcasts featuring Richard Dawkins and some infuriating woman who is under the strange impression that religion is a serious business, rediscovering the Walk the Line soundtrack, holiday-skinning my legs, writing this, making a splendid salad sandwich, watching a portion of last night’s DVD with Spanish dubbing and subtitles just to watch the strange disparity between the two, and deciding that afternoon tea should be indulged, and going to buy a Bimbo cake to eat with my tea. It was probably memories of Belfast that have persuaded my subconscious to persuade my conscious to go to the little shop to buy what we succinctly call Bimbo shit. Bimbo products do truly challenge all normal rules of science, staying soft and squishy and apparently fresh for days running into weeks. Moreish pap.

Apparently this week, the temperature this week is going to hit forty degrees. Likelihood is I won’t see it. I hope not. I spend inordinate amounts of time in one room in the uni, to the point where four walls just do not seem sufficient. In moments of weakness I lean up against the air-conditioner to feel my skin cool and watch what passes for television in this country. I think it’s the worst I’ve seen, and I’ve lived in Italy. It truly looks like a group of friends who have become intoxicated by the sheer amount of make up on their faces, stolen a television studio and are pissing about solely for the amusement of each other; every two minutes they dance like idiots and cackle. It looks, at least, like they’re having a good time. Mexican daytime television strikes me as a series of had-to-be-there moments.

I went on holiday over the Easter holiday. Monterrey, to put it mildly, is not my spiritual home, so visiting other cities and finding I really like them always has a touch of poignant disappointment that I wasn’t placed there. I reassure myself with my ability to visit them, and the knowledge that I can talk with glowing terms about Mexico- the country, and the people, if not the concrete and fast food jungle in which I currently reside. Perhaps I am being overcritical. It is a concrete jungle set in the most incredible craggy mountain ranges and impressive landscape.

To get to Guadalajara, it took the first of two twelve hour bus journeys of the holiday. It did not go well. We arrived in a bus station resembling a pan shot of a city in flight; families squealing at each other over trolleys full of all of their worldly possessions and utter confusion over bus numbers and destinations. Becky was ill, without voice, and my intelligent self, after having with relief found the right bus, stored our luggage and set out, realised my jumper was still in our friendly taxi service. I shivered away the twelve hour journey in a vest top and utter discomfort, resenting Julia-two-hoodies beside me, and the well prepared families with blankets behind.

Guadalajara was great; a clean, white hostel with high ceilings and books, cycling through the city (not me, obviously), squares and cathedrals, Tlaque Plaque and I have to say the worst meal I have had in as long as I can remember. I never know you could make pasta so truly repulsive, but failing to cook the flour in a cheese sauce is a good start. I felt worst for Becky; a painful chest infection, having to watch me nose-bleed at inconvenient moments and then a plate of raw flour and slime.

We moved on to Guanajuato and my new favourite place. It’s not that hard to be my new favourite place; it requires cafes and good places to eat, cobbled streets and colour, trees and hidden plazas, interest, at least one market, the ability to walk most places. A Mexican Margie running a bed and breakfast is an added bonus. Oh, and cable television. Being deprived of television does at least give it a great novelty, especially when you discover the strange culture shock of being able to watch some mid-nineties Changing Room episodes at breakfast time in Mexico. The city was full of people for Semana Santa and getting street treats and elote (with mayonnaise, cheese, chilli and lots and lots of lime) in the evenings was a bit of an enjoyable scrum.

If you can't stand the heat...

Laura Marling and Hot Chip are waiting on youtube. My feet are in a bowl of water, trying to remove the dirt ingrained, playing catch barefoot yesterday. We are planning to gather some bodies for a hotch potch, approximate rounders game; in the February sun, revisiting July Friday afternoons in school. I hope I discover I like rounders, no false memories of joyful, scratchy, grassy afternoons, when the truth is closer to absolute athletic humiliation. We shall see.
It’s Pancake Day and I have only just remembered, and it’s touch and go whether I’ll make them. The more I think about it, the more I think I will; the crunchy sweet sour, lemon and sugar mixture might be too much to resist. Although actually it will be the slightly more exotic lime and sugar, since lemons are non-existent.
It’s only a couple of weeks after bone-shattering cold nights and cold air whistling past my ears; Julia and I huddled together in the same bed for warmth. An enormous pile of blankets, almost pinned to the bed, and a small nest of heat, a shock of cold if you dare to move your toe beyond the boundary to the cold sheet beyond. That is all past and I can hardly remember it now. The heat has begun in full earnest. It’s only the beginning of February, and apparently Sunday hit 40 degrees, although I was snoozing it away, so I can’t be quite sure. Already stepping outside feels like stepping into an enormous hot bath, the warm air pressed up against you. My fear of coping with the heat when summer truly hits is genuine. Becky and I remembered all the aspects of life that come with Monterrey in the heat. When the heat well and truly hits, I will:
a) Be sporting mosquito bites, in the double figures. Current record stands at 16 on one leg; a September special that one; heat, wet weather and windows with holes in combined. Apparently I have sangre dulce, which seems to be from some a compliment, although I would rather have disgusting blood and less bites.
b) Carry a jumper through the heat, to wear in any enclosed space; Stepping from a warm air bath into a sharp, cold, air-conditioned shop or room or car or house or building causes my muscles to contract, my shoulders to jump and the particles of sweat that live on every hair to form a small layer of ice. All within 10 seconds.
c) Spend a significant proportion of my pay in 711 on cold, cold drinks, packed with a sugar hit to get me through the next staggering 20 minutes; then, I come to the next 711 and pop in for another Sprite, or iced tea.
d) Spend minutes at a time with the fridge open in the above shops looking for the above drinks, as an extra cooling technique.
e) Have no choice of hairstyle- jaggedy fringe across the face is all very well and good, as well as tendrils to hide my lack of jaw line, but plastered in sweat to the edge of my face? Not a good look. It is then made worse by the constant movement in and out of air-conditioned areas, creating frizz that had previously been considered impossible by science.
f) Be extra grumpy, grouchy and sleepy.
g) Entirely unable to walk normal distances.
h) Dream of nights when curling up in covers was possible, rather than stretched out, wearing as little as possible, waiting for the beautiful sensation of air movement from the fan, on the edge of sleep.
i) Become suddenly aware of the backs of my knees, the little space where my glasses rest, my inner arm, between my toes, and anywhere my underwired bra meets my skin. All places, where, without care, sweat collects. Urgh. How unpleasant.

It sounds like a gale has just started outside. It is suddenly dark. Perhaps I should relax for a while.

Yellow Lemon Tree is on the radio.
I’ve just polished off a slab of white bread, slathered with a little too much Nutella. That is the only way to eat Nutella I think. Stinginess does not come easily to Nutella, and in unfortunate stingy circumstances, it really only succeeds in gluing a piece of bread to the roof of your mouth. But instead, being indulgent, I have achieved the burning sensation of sugar at the back of my throat and left chocolate finger prints on the pages of my book. Nutella is a food that is intensely associated with holidays in Europe. A non-specific and vague continental memory; campsites, salty sun-kissed skin, ruffles, Principe biscuits, yoghurt and sugar, bread and olive oil, white peaches, a shiny red hire car with Nora snoozing gently to the left, and me, gormless and slightly hypnotised by the rhythm of the alien road signs swimming past the window. Moments of hysterical fear and cackling laughter, when my Dad would absentmindedly swing his arm around the back of the driver’s seat, to try and grab my ankles. I would squeal and draw my feet up on the seat, eyes locked on Dad’s blind hand, patting the car floor in the hope of grabbing an ankle or foot, before some kind of driving manoeuvre required two hands. Perhaps my hysterical, half pleasure, half pain, can be traced back to an all too vivid imagining of the dreadful fate of Jim, being eaten bit by bit; most significantly, feet first.
So, it is January. The European contingent in Monterrey is returning after travelling far and wide, probably taking in most of the country between ourselves. Slipping back into lesson preparations and days spent at the faculty, it feels like I never left, and my visitors, oases in the desert. However, the wealth of photos suggest otherwise, as did the warmth of many voices and proper meals. The pyjama clad padding of the first minutes of the day; Closed-eye listening to coffee and toast preparations, Nora’s warm weight beside me, and the first hours of the day, where inaction and domesticity is wallowed in.
I visited so many places I am already unable to get them quite straight in my head. I was aching for a departure from Monterrey and work when the parents arrived. The grey lockers and furniture where I am interned at work was working its way into my brain. Their trip had an unprepossessing start; the day was cloudy and oppressively warm. Pollution sat in a haze over the city, and hid the mountains, its best feature. They rise above the often bleak and ugly buildings with craggy majesty. But not on that day.
We left the next day for Morelia.-The first of enough flights to make an environmentalist blush. It charmed us.

Over the last couple of weeks I have been suffering from several waves of strong homesickness. I’m living a concurrent life in my head that involves Brick Lane, South Bank, noodles, falafel, the tube, the pervasive grey of London in December, pubs and banter, ridiculous meaningless conversations, and involved discussions based on the intellectual challenges of shag-marry-pushoffacliff. Banter conversations, leaps of imaginative silliness, are very difficult here for various reasons. Mostly my Spanish skills don’t stretch that far; if I embark on a stream of ill-advised silliness, I leave only a trail of confusion. I am missing the people who know me well enough to not only follow me, but better me, stretching a parallel banter universe into other realms. I think I might be talking bollocks again.
I am lazy, and this is my current biggest problem. It is a constant exertion to live in another country, for me anyway, since I’m rather mentally flabby (although beer, cheese and meat are having a rather physical affect too). Obviously a large proportion of life is eating, sleeping, meal-planning and doing little other than breathing in and out at various moments, whether you live in the same village all your life or travel the world. It’s the small proportion of time apart from that which seems the most important. Although actually a good snooze seems pretty important right at this moment.
It’s quite hard to have silly conversations. I am not quite relaxed enough. Conversations generally start with where I am from, and why I am here. Then they move to my ideas about Mexico and Monterrey. Neither of these topics lend themselves well to alternative answers or banter. I’m concerned I am becoming boring. My life here seems so dominated by the fact I’m from elsewhere that conversations are based generally around comparison – invariably me starting with ‘In Britain…’ and ending with words which generally roll into ‘blah blah blah’. I’m falling into some kind of caricature, shying away from the direct questioning that comes easily here – where you live, how old you are, whether you are attached, how much you earn being legitimate questions, and reminiscing about tea and cold weather. How ridiculous. I’ve forgotten what I talk about at home, when being British has no cause for comment. I’m losing the ability to converse. I have it in neither language.
It scares me how comforting anonymity is – how I crave for it and for Britain, a sentiment which seems like some bizarre sort of patriotism which I would have never associated with myself previously. Perhaps I am hardly a fraction as open to living abroad as I thought I was, but then I’ve always been the type of person who revels in any opportunity to forcefully shove my head into any piles of sand that happen to be lying about. I truly did not think I would find it this hard. It was easy to imagine that I would be homesick for London while I was still there and had my big white soft bed, the radio, company and familiarity, but the reality does feel like an absence in my life. I can palpably feel that I am missing a year in London – the last year of university for so many people is passing. Does the London life I miss even exist anymore? Of course not. And I am forgetting how I craved to escape it then. But even remembering commuting on the tube, grey drizzle, London Lite, Argos adverts, the cost of living, Mile End chicken shops, fails to halt homesickness. They have acquired virtue in their familiarity – they are obviously unpleasant parts of life, but of a life I miss.
The best, if rather laboured, analogy I can think of for living abroad is that it feels like waking up in a house very familiar to you, but everything has been moved three inches to the left. At first you don’t realise it; everything looks the same but you stumble on the stairs, you reach and inexplicably miss the light switch - your assumptions and innate reactions have lost their validity. You can no longer rely on things that you have always taken for granted. Sometimes for good reason. Some things ‘we’ do are bloody ridiculous. Like refusing to ask for directions. Or the strange meandering conversations that are required to discover small pieces of information.
Perhaps the most frustrating thing about this is, is that I know that leaving Mexico will come all too horribly soon and I shall be unable to understand why so much time was spent thinking about a city and group of people that will still be there in July.

No tables no chairs

November in Monterrey and Christmas seems like months away rather than a few weeks. The days are not drawing in, I haven’t seen a Marks and Spencer Christmas food advert and the weather is still tending towards short sleeves, clear blue skies and warmth. Every few days I wake chilly round the edges, the air smelling cool and frosty, or perhaps a dense grey lack of light that reminds me of London. But often it’s still sunny. It’s rather strange to see them build an enormous Christmas tree in the macroplaza, against a clear blue sky.
I am living in the centre with a smoking, drinking, clubbing, lovely blonde German teacher called Julia in a new flat. Without furniture. My airbed is surprisingly comfortable and I am doing well with creating bedside furniture with boxes. But sofas, chairs and eating at tables have become novelties. My posture is not good enough to spend such extended periods of time sitting on the floor. Me and Julia spent a shameful amount of time in Walmart to set up house, and after a couple of days without furniture, the displays were just too tempting – we snuggled down into one of the sofas for a chat, munching biscuits and people watching.

No true Mexico

Sometimes I wonder what country I’m living in. I have been repeatedly told that it isn’t Mexico. Or perhaps that should be Mexico – italicised to emphasize the slight nod and smug smile that goes with the understanding that anything south of the suburbs is the true Mexico, and where I’m living is therefore presumably elsewhere entirely. I really do wish someone would tell me where, because I’m not sure I have a visa to be here. And quite a lot of it feels pretty damn Mexican to me. Admittedly I’m living in a city where I’ve discovered not only Walmart but a whole other host of US stores that I never had an inkling existed. English accents are American accents and I would be truly in denial to deny the strong influence from the United States. But that is hardly surprising being two hours from the border. In a city where you can clock the Chevrolets, six lane roads and McDonalds (other fast food outlets are very much available), you can also hear cumbia and salsa (much to Julia’s dismay), laments to the Mexican outside of Mexico, add cheese to your crisps and subsist entirely on a diet of corn tortillas and avocado, and celebrate with carne asada. There is true pride in being Mexican. Perhaps no-one has told them they aren’t living in Mexico.
I understand what people are saying. Up here is not heavily influenced by the indigenous population; we have no ruins and temples. The city is new and many buildings are hardly celebrating their fifth birthday. Life is more expensive and the city is more modern. How do I defend this claim? Once you leave the centre you can pretty quickly come across areas that are by no means wealthy or modern. Perhaps people reckon poverty is required for the truly Mexican experience.
The more popular Mexican cities are the colonial ones, and for good reason. They, as far as I can tell from my extremely limited experience, are beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. And, of course, built on the European model. And strangely, again, based on my limited Zacatecian experience last week, you see many more actual Americans, more gringos, more gueros, whatever expression you chose for that old chestnut, white person, in these popular, pretty, true Mexican towns. I may be living in a city heavily influence by its bloated neighbour from above, but unless you buy into and live the ex-pat community life style, incidence of meeting another guero is actually surprisingly rare. In general wealthy and middle class Mexicans populate this city in the North, surrounded by mountains, so it’s lacking the kudos for backpackers and the hostels that serve them. This doesn’t mean that every man, his dog and his uncle don’t speak a couple of words of English that they helpfully shout after you.
In an attempt to uncover all the subtle intricacies of Mexican culture, Julia, Becky, Aline and I spent the first part of Saturday night in Zacatecas drink long shots of tequila whilst wearing sombreros. Secreted away in a corner of the hostel with sofas (the joy – I have no furniture, so it has been many a long day since I’ve had the pleasure of sitting on a sofa). We found two sombreros hanging in the corner, and the hostel dueno came to visit us regularly enough to fill the glass. Coming from the land of pubs, where tequila is drunk in the early hours with the ritual of salt and a lemon to bite through the pain, I was not entirely mentally prepared for the tall shots on only a beer or two, plain tequila. No ritual. And a sombrero to concentrate on holding on to. This was all a little too much to cope with – I flung my head back (hoping gravity would take responsibility for the tequila.) The combined experience of the sombrero flying back off my head, and Becky saying something amusing caused me to convulse with laughter. The tequila in my mouth (my head still flung back) exited it quickly, in an intriguing and rather impressive fountain effect. I sprayed the room. Beautiful. It is tough being elegant.

Why oh why oh why oh why did I answer my phone at 8am on my day off? The behaviour of an idiot. It's like I've never been a welfare officer - the first rule of being a welfare officer is do not answer the phone, the second rule of being a welfare officer is do not answer especially when you are in bed, before 10am on your day off, especially when you haven't had a lie in for two weeks. Well that all went out the window. 8 am Friday, phone rings. It's Elsa telling me that Amandine and I need to go in to Uni to see a conference on teaching maths in the classroom, never mind that it's my day off, that I don't teach maths, that it will be in English, a language Amandine doesn't speak. We get showered and dressed, and wait for a lift in to Uni. It's not until about 10 till 9 that we realise there's a large chance that our lift has already left. It has. We gave up, rather early to be honest, but walking through the heat to squeeze on a bus and be bumped around for a while, is more than I'm prepared to do for a conference on teaching maths.
My birthday was lovely.7.37 woke up to a message from London, into work and spanish class, getting taken to cake shop, huge strawberry cheese cake, lunch, maestos and friends, and people I can't remember the name of, photos, photos, returning home, sweaty and tired, get dragged excitedly upstairs, given a bunch of flowers almost as tall as I am, Paddington bear, slightly teary, message from London, into barrio antiguo, Tomoyo, Becky, Amandine, Amy, Tony, little restuarant, with books, candles, Italian food, sol and lime and salt, chat and laughter (Tomoyo says Japanese men are feisimo - how do you spell that?, but we should all get a Japanese man because they don't talk back, quietly work very very hard and have big hearts. She is currently travelling as far as I can tell, to gawp at all the attractive men, before she goes back to her feo japanese novio, her words not mine!), bar art, lamps and chairs and sofas and not enough room on the balcony, men who look like dads with moustaches playing music, the keyboard with more than a hint of Blackpool or Phoenix Nights, sang Happy Birthday to me, tequila longer than my index finger, hurried panicked search for keys that someone else had and bundled into taxis, attempts not to be charged foreigner prices - Tomoyo goes as far as massaging the taxi driver's shoulders, repeating '60...60..', we still travel the long way round, through the dark dark streets to home. And getting up at 7.40 the next morning. The tequila causing a big enough dent in my immune system to let a nasty cold be finally victorious.

no immigation no sleep

Hmmm, I think my attempts not to be too slushy ended in people thinking I’m dreadfully unhappy here. Not so. Also mentioned wanting to go home, by which I actually meant to my little house on Río Lerma, to listen to the radio swing between 80’s classics, unidentifiable Mexican music and The Beatles and read strange American books, lent to me by a friendly American in my Spanish class. They refer to Africa as a country, and rely on a knowledge of the geography of the United States, but since the library here is rather less stocked than I thought it would be (Ulysses in Spanish anyone?), and I unloaded all my books on Nora in Costa Rica, I’m rather dependent on Beth’s goodwill and library.
This weekend was lovely, knackering and rather impressive, and seemed to be a lesson in not being so lazy, not going home too early.
Having been a student for the last few years, the daily rise and shine for leaving the house at 8.30am has been rather difficult, and over the last couple of weeks, my attempts to get myself and the correct paperwork to immigration have been constantly thwarted by the need for more photocopies, the life of the coordinator here, Lupita, which seems full of events that prevent her taking me to immigration. I have suggested I’ll go alone (I’ve done it before. I took the list of paperwork we were told we needed in Mexico City. The muchacho at the desk took great pleasure in snorting derisively at the small amount of paper, ‘casi nunca’, and gave me a much longer one with which to return). However, the university seem to want me to go with someone, namely Lupita, in case there is a problem, or something needs explaining. This is a little ironic, since I find her more difficult to understand than almost anyone else I’ve met. She says a lot and quickly, so that I’ve found myself in the past flailing – unable to work out even if she wants me to follow her to a class or stay where I am.
Friday morning felt like the last straw. Friday is my day off, designed so I can go on lots of weekend trips away. I have been trying for a couple of weeks to get to immigration, and Friday was definitely meant to be it. I could have done with a lie-in, washing clothes, boring, mundane, pottering alone time, which I’m rather short of since Amandine moved in (no offense to her, she’s very nice). However, the promise of a car trip to immigration was just too tempting and dragged my carcass out of bed to make it into Uni for 9am as usual. Needless to say I wasn’t best pleased to learn that some event or other had unfolded, and I wouldn’t be going to immigration. If it wasn’t for cake and orange juice in my Spanish lesson, I think I would have wept with frustration. I was not in a good mood. It was lucky they only mentioned the possibility of me teaching Lupita’s one and a half hour class on my day off in passing, or my British roots would have been forgotten, and I might have, God forbid, made a scene.
But the weekend changed all that. Friday afternoon was spent in the cool quiet of MARCO, the modern art gallery, in a Frieda Kahlo exhibition. It was absolutely fantastic. How do you describe an art exhibition? Not only did I fall in love with some of her paintings, but her old letters and postcards had been sealed in plastic, hung from the ceiling so that you could move among them and read. There’s nothing I love more than old letters, and the reading equivalent of eavesdropping. Lovely jubbly.
On Saturday, I took an unexpected road trip. Went to the Grutas of Garcia - a cave system. (And Anna, after watching The Descent, I’m very proud I managed to stay calm). Yet again highly impressive, and indescribable. One of the best things about it, was the way in which some chap had gone around trying to shapes in the rock, and named them. As we walked around the system, every so often, there would be a neon arrow and title, lit up and gaudy, telling you what that piece of cave looked like. There was a donkey, that looked sort of like a donkey, a ‘finger of death’, which looked slightly like a finger, although more like a long piece of rock, and of course Jesus and Mary, neither of which looked anything like them. In fact, the strangest thing was, that right next to what they suggested was the suffering face of Jesus, was a shape that looked very much like a man on a cross. But they didn’t choose that. Strange and mysterious.
After the Grutas and a big lunch, we (Becky, Amandine, Amy & Tony) drove across some amazing countryside, to find some hot springs (aguas termales). Becky had seen reference to them in a leaflet from the tourist office, that said they were close to the Grutas. We started on one of those drives that unfolds further and further, asking every now and again for directions from people on the roadside. The road was curved round, through plains surrounded by mountains. I am in the land of the Western, although with more vegetation and less cacti. I was perfectly content – incredible scenery, a road trip, music, people, all of the above. This was only bettered on the way back, by going through a ‘servi-car’, or Mexican drive thru, my new favourite thing – it looks likes a barn or a warehouse with a road through, and at one side sits a person, waiting to sell you crisps, water, drinks, or, as we bought, cold beer. On the way home, we had car, music, beer, people, speeding through a clear road through the mountains.
Before that, however, we did finally make it the hot springs. I had imagined them, open-aired, very natural, bubbling out of rocks. What we actually found was an isolated and luxurious hotel. If the writer from The Shining ever wants to write a sequel, it would be the perfect place. We paid about 150 pesos, about 7 pounds to go in, which is a lot, but it was definitely worth it. In a room covered in beautiful tiles, between arches, there was an pool of water, of about 40-45 degrees – the temperature of a hot bath – so that with your feet it feels a little too hot, but to swim in it was gorgeous. Felt rather roman lying at the side of the pool, if only there had been a servant to feed me grapes. Well, nowt’s perfect. The other slight problem with the baths was the strong smell of sulphur they gave off, which somewhat stuck to the skin, and also something in the water reacted with any silver jewellery, turning it a shade of blackish, brackish bronze. I could have stayed there all day, swimming in the hot water and showering in the warm, reading and snoozing gently at the side of the pool.
P.S - more on the weekend later, and have found my new cafe 1001, although it's a little more chilled.

no shout, no shouting

Now what did I say about sod's law saving up something for me? I knew it was going to be big when I both managed to get back from the supermarket with no problems, and then yesterday I travelled right across Monterrey to get to Becky's flat and I got on the right bus, and off at the right stop. Sod's law rubbed it's hands with glee and saved up something big.
We dressed up rather fetchingly in green, red and white in celebration of our adopted country, even went as far as face paint, hair ribbon and glorious glorious moustaches, which we twiddled and shaped, and left, ultimately, at home. I think that was a good move, since the majority of Mexicans had left behind their green, red and white costumes. Most people had managed to bring their umbrellas and little trumpety things, and lots of people in front of us had generously worn their sombreros.
After standing on the verge of an enormous road for exactly the amount of time it took for me to give up hope and my shoes to become slimey in the rain, we successfully hailed a taxi. We headed for the Macroplaza. The centre had been pedestrianised and was being policed by men in lovely bright yellow raincoats. Very Paddington. Want one. What had previously been an underpass was taken over by stalls selling food, flags, trumpets, face paint. It was a sea of people, all shouting, tooting and eerily lit in yellow. Very odd. Since it was only about 10.15, and it was still spitting with rain (or estaba chispeando, as I learnt in class today - el chipi chipi), we went to find a bar. This was more difficult than it might seem on Independence Day in Mexico - not dressed or desiring an expensive, exclusive club. We ducked into the nearest place with seats and shelter and beer. My slimey shoes were breaking for freedom, so we were moving rather slowly.
It was a karaoke bar, a place to wait until we went back to the plaza for el grito, what the whole celebrations centre on. The shout, by the governor of each place, similtaneously throughout Mexico, of ¡Viva! ¡Viva this! ¡Viva that! and finally and of course ¡Viva Mexico! We were waiting until just before 12 to brave the rain and go out to see a couple of thousand people shout all together, fireworks, celebrations etc etc. I don't normally go in for large public celebrations, and I should have clocked the New Year´s Eve ambiance of the evening, but I thought that I'd probably never be in Mexico for Independence Day again, so I might as go with it. Plus Becky was very excited, and that was rather infectious.
Then sod's law kicked in. Everyone I've spoken to, ditto Becky, had said midnight was the big time. It's definitely the logical time, since the Día de Independencía was actually Sunday, the day after - same as celebrating New Year at midnight on New Year's Eve. However, it was with a growing sense of concern, horror and overwhelming disbelief that we watched the television screens come on. The cameras followed the official through a palace and out onto the balcony, the balcony that was five mintues from the strange little karaoke bar where we were sitting. The governor went to the balcony and el grito commenced. ¡Viva! everybody shouted. At 11pm. Not midnight. How ridiculous is that? We spent the height of celebrations, dressed up and sat in a bar 5 minutes from actually seeing and hearing el grito in action. Sod's Law indeed.
The rest of the evening was still good fun. A German girl called Julia has been here for 2 weeks and is staying with a religious family, but no run of the mill Catholic family. We're not quite sure what, but they don't smoke, they don't drink and she's obviously going stir crazy-I met her at a fiesta we had instead of spanish class. Her first question to me was 'Do you like going out?´.
She spent the first half of the celebrations at a party with no drinks and no music, and the second half, they spent at the macroplaza, so she escaped to find Becky, me and a large bottle of beer. She had been given a chaparone called Estéban, who very sweetly followed us around and asked in utter disbelief if me and Becky were out alone. We went to a chilled out place and ended up listening to a man with a guitar singing lovelily songs that the audience knew all the words to. Was good.

no hair no haircut

I thought I'd getting a blog so I could both nauseatingly express every moment of my living day and small thought that crosses my mind, and force you to read it out of your general desire to procrastinate and find some small reason to stay on the internet longer, now you've read postsecret three times this week and changed your facebook status three times in the last hour. I also can't remember who I've emailed and who wants to know what.
So here I am in Monterrey, México, or for those of you who enjoy being a bit multicultural, Mejjjjico. I've been here for the last two weeks, and could probably blather on for a while about how it seems both like a really long time and a really short time, yada yada yada, you've heard it all before, and probably from me.
So, I supose I should first go into a bit about Monterrey. It isn't actually desert, as I was expecting, or at least, not yet, and especially not today. This weekend is Mexican Independence Day, and the weather has come over all British. It's rainy and grey (yes that is grey with an ´e' - I'm working hard to maintain British spelling a few hundred miles from the border). It has parks, and trees and greenery, although I'm sure what happens to the parks, trees and greenery when the hot season hits and so do the mid-40s. Wait till March and tell you all about it. The centre (or downtown) is quite impressive - plazas, museums and a barrio antiguo, which I have yet to explore, but is quiet and pretty in comparison with the area where I'm living. One of the plazas there is where, tonight, at midnight, someone will step forth and shout ¡Viva México!, which happens all over the country, and seems to have a lot of importance and a very long build up for two little words. But hopefully I shall be there to witness it.
I am living in a self contained place attached to the house of Yesika, who works in the office in Uni, where I currently spend most of my days hanging around and wondering what I'm meant to be doing, hoping beyond hope that one day I will have a timetable.
The house/flat/place whatever is sweet and has all mod cons - kitchen, telly, shower, all those type of lovely things, although every now and again and cockroach comes to die on the kitchen floor. I've only seen one live one so far, it was enormous and scared the hell out of me. The cockroach spray was just out of reach, and as I went to get it, I accidently chased the cockroach under the dividing door and into the apartment of Yeskia's very sweet Abuela, which made me feel slightly guilty at the time. Then I thought that she's probably been dealing with cockroaches single-handed whilst carrying three children and a cat, whilst hand-making tortillas, since long before I was born.
I'm living alone at the moment, but there's a french assistant arriving either on Tuesday or in October, depending on either who I heard correctly or has the correct information, at the Uni, who's going to move in. My first reaction when I arrived was to look for somewhere else to live with people and closer to the centre, but I've grown fond of my little kitchen, checked table cloth and all, and new washing machine with a mind of its own. I'm also worried about getting from the centre to the Uni, which is out north. There is a metro being built to connect to the university, but a large portion of it fell down last week, so I'm not holding my breath. I am currently close to the bus to uni and the metro to centre, so going to see how it goes for a while.
After mostly getting into Uni in Yesika's car, last Thursday I was allowed out for the first time - to get the bus home. Everyone at the uni was obviously slightly concerned about this and what would happen, but having spent the last few days getting a lift there and back, I was pretty confident - Hmm, that should have been a warning sign. I blame bus-peer-pressure - I have to get off at a junction, and when the bus stopped at a similar junction, everybody jumped off, and in a split second decision, I jumped up too. I knew as soon as I got off that I was in the wrong place and should have just sat tight and got on the next bus. Instead I wanted to check, to be a hundred percent sure I was in the wrong place, so I proceeded to drag myself across roads of many lanes, across massive traffic islands, which were strangely muddy, nearly losing my shoe, crossing roads like a Mexican, which means not even expecting a crossing but striding forth in front of traffic. This was all done in front of full view of the obligatory old Mexican men sitting on corners who were visibly flummoxed and amused by this strange gringa, pink faced and confused, staggering across roads, and attempting to keep a straight faced 'I know what I'm doing' expression. Of course, I had to repeat the whole exercise in reverse, and go and sit down and wait for the next bus, and got home safe and dry. I walked to the supermarket and back yesterday for the first time and I didn't get lost or absolutely confused, so sod's law is obviously saving something up for me.