The more I see, the less I know

It's cold and raining here in Los Angeles.

Let's go back, south of the border, where it's 85˚ F and the avocados and strawberries are a dime a dozen.

Between the idea and the reality

Taking off over Oaxaca

This is the way the world my trip to México ends: not with a bang but a whimper. I was just sitting there in the airport, listening to my iPod. No melodramatic crying. Maybe there was a little tearing up when I said goodbye to my host mum, but relatively uneventful. Even last night, which was incredibly fun, still sort of let me down (mostly because I have an overactive imagination and I was to come to pass does not ever come to pass).

And now, back in Los Angeles, sitting in my room, everything feels so familiar. But I don't want it to.

I want to go back to México.

Landing in Mexico City

Baggage

I'm all packed, but it was a painful process. I'm pretty sure I'm over the weight limit, and I'm leaving a ton of shit behind.

Last night was our last night out, and while we did not stay up to watch the sun rise, we did manage not to all start sobbing. The sobbing happened this morning, just befor 7 a.m., when we saw Melissa and Catherine off the airport. I'm leaving at a quarter to three. I don't even want to think if there will be some sort of floodgate opening at that point.

It just feels like I'm losing a little part of me. Which sounds stupid, but it's the truth.

The imminent end

So I leave Mexico on Saturday.

I want to go home and see my friends and family, but I don't want to leave. This place, even with all it's flaws, is so wonderful and fucking awesome and I feel at home here. It feels like so long ago that I arrived, that the five of us went on our trip to Monte Alban and took the most awkward photo on the face of the planet (above), not touching each other or anything, and then the next group photo (a whole forty-five minutes later) with our arms round each other, looking as friendly as can be. There are five copies on that super-awkward photo, one on each of our cameras.

Going on trips to foreign countries with a large group, I've done before. And you feel really close, but they only last 10 days, or 20 days, and then you send messages on Facebook occasionally but essentially forget about them. But you realize how superficial that is when you have a three-month long experience to compare it to. I think it's impossible to share a trip like this one with four other girls and not actually remain friends.

It's strange to think about the life I'll be going back to; how quickly it will seem normal again. How even if I wanted to recapture this trip, I never could, not even by coming back here.

What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico.

Fish of the day

Between writing papers about Mexican economics (in Spanish), going to the gym five days a week and ballet class two, finding time to go out and absorb as much 'culture' as possible, and flirting with cute (possibly underage) Mexican boys, I have sort of neglected blogging. I apologise. I know I have a hundreds, possibly thousands, of people reading this blog, constantly checking for updates only to be disappointed when they are short and sparse.* I'm sorry. I really am.

It's just that when life is really exciting, or at least closer to exciting than it usually is, I become impatient with writing about it and instead just want to live it. Which is, I know, a crazy notion, and you must be thinking, Damn, that girl is original. Carpe diem!

But even though I want to live in the moment, I would also like to remember the moment. So I am going to try and be better. Also, NaNoWriMo starts in two and half days, so hopefully I'll be writing for a good portion of every day and it'll just flow over into my blog. Or I'll be so sick of writing that I'll write even less. Either way.

And finally, the most amusing chocolate milk you will ever see:


Remember, it's only racism when white people do it!


*I don't not have hundreds, much less thousands, of followers. I have four. And they are not checking constantly for updates.

I love the smell of AK-47s in the morning

A few weeks back, we were taking a taxi home at 1 AM when we saw a guy standing on a street corner in Ashley's neighborhood, holding a semi-automatic weapon.

"Holy shit!" I yelled. "What the fuck is that?"

"Oh, my host mom told me about him," Ashley said. "He's just political."

"Those must be some strong politics."

Later, when we were all more sober, Ashley explained that people standing on street corners in residential neighborhoods with guns were actually bodyguards for people involved in politics. Oh, that makes more sense, although it's hardly comforting because THEY STILL HAVE SEMI-AUTOMATIC WEAPONS.


Tonight Catherine and I were walking home around 11:30 p.m. and saw a bodyguard, which doesn't surprise me anymore. Only he was wearing a bandana over his mouth, and it was the first thing I saw and it FREAKED MY SHIT OUT. Because you know who I've ever seen wearing bandanas over their mouths? Guerrillas. I'm just sayin'.

And it breaks my heart

We went and visited Hogar de Las Niñas, a local girls' orphanage, to discuss volunteer opportunities with the director, and we've decided we're going to come on Saturday afternoons to sing songs or organise art projects. I can't wait to start working with these girls, because they're all so well-behaved, and apparently very starved for attention, because they only have four regular employees for thirty-five girls.

They are so cute and absolutely heartbreaking. I was talking to one of them, and she said she was born in May or July. It's definitely one of those things that's never even occurred to me--not knowing when you were born. I can't even imagine.

Taking the plunge

They eat grasshoppers here.

Now, that might sound like the start of a rant into all the gross, weird things here that I don’t like, but it’s not.

They’re called chapulínes.

My host mother offered me some on my second day here, and I even though I knew they would be tasty (I mean, they’re crunchy and covered in garlic and lemon; it’s like a potato chip without the trans fat), I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. I knew it would taste good (maybe even great), but I looked at them, and they looked like grasshoppers (SHOCKER, I KNOW) and I just couldn’t do it. They had legs. I mean, legs. That could start moving again at any moment. (They could not start moving again at any moment.)

I told my host mother to put them in my food without telling me, and I would eat them.

I’m not good at taking the plunge. Well, that might be a lie. I did come here, knowing no one, on a program I found at a study abroad fair that no one at my university had ever heard of or had anything to say about. And I actually did that before, when I signed up for debate/journalism camp in Italy two summers ago.

I think I’ve digressed.

I’m not usually good at taking the plunge. Especially physical plunges, like just running into the Pacific Ocean (it’s cold!) or jumping into the pool (it might be cold!) or, apparently, eating grasshoppers (I’M SORRY, BUT THE WAY THEY LOOK IS JUST FREAKING ME OUT).

Last weekend we were at this market, and Ashley bought a bag of chapulínes for everyone to share. And I took one out of the bag and stared at it for what must’ve been a second but felt like an eternity, thinking Just fucking do it already, just fucking do it, it won't be that bad, just fucking DO IT, and then just fucking did it.

My host mom said, “Oh, you wouldn’t eat them before, and now you say you ate them at the market!”