If my Great-Grandma Paulina had a blog....

I hope this is what she would say. The following is an excerpt from her emailed response (heck yeah my great-grandma sends emails!) to my mom, who had let her know that she and my dad were about to come down here for a visit:

Have fun in Mexico City. We did when we visited there in the motor home. We had the tour of the city, visited the pyramids and the famous cathedral there. We travelled with a caravan of some 25 rigs, camped outside the city and were bussed in. We also went to a Mexican Festivale and that was special. Your parents were here Saturday and we ate at the Chunese buffet. Mary Alice and family will come Friday night to go to Ponderosa. That seems to be the motto in this family anymore "Take Grandma out and feed her". Today I have a dental app't. This world is full of fun!

Bloggles

Urrgh, the dreaded first entry back after being away for too long. In the last three or six weeks, I can't remember, I have been tossing around the same geographic circuit in a perpetual, lone gym sock-like motion. This means I had lots of fun and did occasional backflips, but mostly craved the moment when the ride would be over. Now it's high time to cool off, and more importantly, to have someone smell me.

February was mostly composed of trips to new lands,  such as Chiapas, Valle de Bravo, Oaxaca, and Michoacan. These are already starting to congeal into one big, blurry super-trip memory in my head, thanks to my awesomely disciplined blogging on the road (note lack of link to further reading). But let it be recorded now that you had much fun, Ms. TwoShoes, even though two of those trips were failed butterfly expeditions.

Late February and March consisted of return visits and retraced steps. Our Fulbright midyear meetup brought me back to the same hotel where we'd landed, clueless, in August, only this time I felt much more at home with my hoop earrings and knock-off designer purse. I had so much fun catching up with the far-flung f.b. gang that I wound up delaying my move to Xalapa another day, so that I could tour the south side canals of Xochimilco with them for a second (totally sweet) time.

My move to the quaint, Alpiney-fresh mountain community of Xalapa took place the next day on a bus, and given my love for The Sound of Music the romance of this was almost unbearable. Fortunately I was bogged down with 6 months' worth of steadily accumulated Mexican crap, such as my collection of knock-off designer purses, making the Fraulein Maria dance to my new apartment pretty much impossible.

I spent 72 lovely hours in my new home, which you can tour thanks to a video by its rad former inhabitants. I spent most of that time inside, working, lounging, and sewing buttons on several sweaters which, again, was suddenly the neatest thing ever in my country surroundings. I did manage to get out to the supermarket, where I realized that setting up a Mexican kitchen from scratch is a tricky but totally exhilarating task. Vanilla extract, for example, comes in only one size: half-liter. Since I didn't have a shopping list, I just conjured up one of those Flemish still lifes in my head and worked from that instead.

But before I knew it, my country life was interrupted and I lugged a suitcase back onto a bus bound for Mexico City, in order to fly back to Chicago for the weekend. Over the course of three days, the weather morphed before me like the colors of a mood ring. What started out green and peaceful suddenly flared up red and hot in the hazy Wednesday evening sunset at the Mexico City TAPO terminal. This was followed by the blue, cold drizzle of Chicago, where I stayed for three days, got interviewed by a parade of professors for a grad program, and turned twenty-four.

In one of my interviews, I snuck a sleep-deprived yawn while my interviewer looked through my file. Noticing that I keep a blog, he commented that blogs often make him feel guilty when he slacks off on their upkeep. I told him I could not understand this better, since I had spent weeks away from my own blogs. But, I had to ask, since I was practically in slumber-party gossip mode, hadn't he ever experienced the feeling of bloggles?

What is bloggles, he asked, inviting me to proceed to ruin whatever academic potential he'd seen in my file.

Holding back another yawn, I suddenly found myself speaking openly for the first time all day. It's the way you start to see the world when you're consistently and actively blogging, I said. It makes you look for themes, and try to frame moments with good composition, like if you were taking a picture. It's good for your imagination, and helps you (er, should help you) to be concise.

Audio Postcard: Ode to Sweetness

Aztecs making Chocolate in 1671 (from the Mariners' Museum)

Here's a song I've been listening to a lot lately, which comes from the INAH-Fonoteca Mexican Music series. This particular album, La Dulcería Mexicana (Mexican sweets) compiles songs from all over Mexico that deal with one fabulous topic: candy. 

This album not only lets you sample lots of varieties of sweet regional music—it illustrates what is already musical about sweets. Their names (cocadas, champurrados, charamuscas, bombones) for example, are sung over and over again on some tracks, imitating the way that the street vendors called pregoneros hawk their wares through something resembling song.

This song, "El Chocolalerolero," is sweetest of all because it talks about reminiscing with loved ones over hot, sweetened beverages. I'm posting it here so you can enjoy it before Starbucks gets their hands on it.

flutter byes

So whooped. But must chronicle.

My Mexico City chapter is about to come to a hectic close. But I'm pretty sure that in Mexico City, that's how it must be. In the past week I've returned from Oaxaca; gone to the dentist; drunk free wine at a friend's art opening; worked from home in a plastic chair and developed back problems; interviewed an indie band on the day of their D. F. debut while strongly regretting my choice of outfit; and made significant headway into packing by matching up all of my stray socks. And so, Mexico City, this is our fond and frenzied farewell before I move onto a greener, quieter, and probably boring-er place.

I only wish I had taken more time during this past week to remember to buy clean water. With no water at home and me being busy, I wound up having no choice but to hydrate myself with lots of coffee, or eating a cucumber before bed, or squeezing the daylights out of an orange this afternoon while on a huge failure of a hike (see below).

Butterfly sanctuary? more like CEMETERY.

The hike was through the famous El Rosario Monarch butterfly reserve in the mountains of Michoacán. Supposedly on a sunny day (i.e. every day in Mexico, or so I thought) you can see "rivers of butterflies" there. So my friends and I excitedly made the four-hour drive, only to watch the sky mysteriously darken as we pulled into the parking lot. Two hours later, we were huffing and puffing (and squeezing oranges for dear life) after a 100% uphill climb. 

We found ourselves in a massive butterfly dormitory, staring up at cloudy skies and gazillions of passed-out butterflies. They clung to tall pine branches by the thousands, heavy as bananas but about as exciting as dry leaves. We then realized that they were bracing themselves for a hailstorm, which would proceed to appear out of nowhere. Before we knew it we could see our breath, and were pelted with ice all the shrieking, arm-flailing way down. The highlight was when I wiped out in the mud, and the elderly Mexican woman who caught me then scolded me for running downhill.

Oaxaca heat

Am spending the week in the state of Oaxaca, staying at the beachside bungalow of my friend and fellow music-lovin' Fulbrighter Phillip and his wife, Itzel. Phillip and I started scheming up a recording project back in September when we met at orientation, and we're finally getting it rolling now. Since returning from a sweaty, dusty trip through the rural Costa Chica yesterday, I can't wait to sit down and wrangle these hours of tape into something shareable. Till then, some pics.

The sunset over Phillip and Itzel's house in Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca

The Costa Chica is known for its afro-mestizo musical traditions, like echando versos (throwing verse), above.

Driving up the Cerro del Chivo (Goat Hill) to look out at the sea on one side, and the sierra on the other. 

Señor Gallardos sat in on our interviews and accompanied us on the truck out of town. Like everyone we talked to, many of his family members have migrated the U. S.

Government bikes

Here's a little ditty I wrote while riding a rented bike through Mexico City this morning. It is best sung to the tune of a tone-deaf neighbor humming while happily washing his car.

Morale is up

And smog is down

When we ride rented bikes through town.

My bike was free

So I don't mind

That I waited for two hours in line.

Some very active

Families

Show off their bike accessories.

The street is safe

The trees are pretty

When cars stay home in Mexico City.

Audio Postcard: Waters of Chiapas

Back home, lots of times when I'd ask Mexican immigrants where they were from, they would say Chiapas.

Then I would nod and say, "oh sí, Chiapas," because, like Krakow or Nagasaki, I had heard of it. I knew what country it was in but not much else, and would be darned if I could find it on a map. I proceeded to feel bad when this made them raise a hopeful eyebrow and ask, "you've been there?"

"Er, no," I'd say, "but hopefully someday."

Deep down I didn't think I'd ever go there. This was mainly because I imagined Chiapas to be like a desert: dry, impoverished, and full of the kind of struggling pueblos that people have to migrate away from. In the world map of my mind, which despite my B. A. in International Studies still closely resembles the one I had in fourth grade, I spiced up my image of Chiapas with some horses and ranches, for no reason other than that Chiapas sounds kind of like "chaps."

Surprise...I was way off. Turns out Chiapas is deep green, lush, and next to Guatemala. I didn't come across a single horse or ranch, but I did see electric-blue waterfalls and sprawling Mayan ruins, all of which, I repeatedly psyched myself, have been quietly tucked into the mountains since long before the notion of a New World meant anything.



But being rural and relatively isolated, the struggling pueblos are definitely there. From inside my air-conditioned bus, I could see lights shining through the gaps in wooden shacks, and smoke from cooking fires piping out of rusted chimneys. It made me think ahead, to my return to the U. S. and my next conversation with a chiapaneco—a native of Chiapas—since I now have a better picture of what they left behind.

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