tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27715802530285654992024-02-07T09:14:03.916+01:00Sojournaling while on the road.Ramblings of nomad wandering the world beginning September 2009.TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-62476275756390548642013-07-14T19:27:00.000+02:002013-07-14T19:27:04.887+02:00Wine Tasting in the Sultry Summer
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<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">The narrow
road wound its way through the verdant rolling hills and quaint, picturesque
villages of the Saxony-Anhalt countryside. At times, this thoroughfare was
ample enough for two vehicles—some of them load-bearing trucks—while at other
points, particularly in the towns, in had scarcely enough room for one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">The square
houses of these small towns came right up to the road, as a result of having
been built in a time when the largest traffic conceivable consisted of a beast
of burden and a cart with wooden wheels. As we breezed through these towns in a
sleek, German-built automobile, I was occasionally able to glance into these
dwellings and glimpse a hand-crafted wooden table or vintage porcelain wares.
Some of these structures were extremely well-maintained, while others had exposed
bricks, stones, or even support beams. In the centers of the villages, houses
had been built consecutively and sharing a common wall, lending themselves to
the “classic European” architecture and style that I had come to expect while
dreaming of my travels on the continent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">My companions
for the day were Marcel, his wife Nancy, and their youngster. (Marcel is
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ88tL04q1ISwRjc9pBrbpM2T7FMqFogvTkhc3OmyctW_EtoPRGEya9thDWmZj1BqLHH4_wejqWBfBhWOXytA1Ezit7fuNIooJlV0BYyD750cZ-iGvAY4csk7EQeahuxzSbg0-DxKqpdE/s1600/Newlyweds+1.jpg" target="_blank">Madlen</a>’s older brother and my former coworker, who is
mentioned at the end of the <a href="http://theramblingnomad.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-first-days.html" target="_blank">previous post</a>.) We were on our way to one of
Deutschland’s wine-producing regions, located in the heart of the Saxony-Anhalt
state. Some of the wineries are the former monasteries of centuries ago, and thanks
to their thirsty and ingenious monks, present-day Germany enjoys its beer (and
to a lesser extent, its wine) prestige. The car drove up a green hillside and
past the blooming grapevines while Marcel explained that most vineyards have
been planted on south-facing slopes so as to bathe the grapes with as much sun
as possible. Our destination, Thüringer Winery, lay among the gathering of
structures at the top of the hill. We hurried into the cool, air-conditioned
tasting room, a welcome respite from the unusually hot and humid summer day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"></span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0bvhLcoJkKA_eMkAPJDnRHZov7uYxk4lowWcmgLumJycrcH1_A8KVuhXVF5hK3GDlKDUpPrmm8o_eX3hhSG81SODihlPEqSVqDPcLPtXnhYpXpcOByIYDjH1AN6BSA4TBpZNIURN1_w/s1600/Thuringer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0bvhLcoJkKA_eMkAPJDnRHZov7uYxk4lowWcmgLumJycrcH1_A8KVuhXVF5hK3GDlKDUpPrmm8o_eX3hhSG81SODihlPEqSVqDPcLPtXnhYpXpcOByIYDjH1AN6BSA4TBpZNIURN1_w/s1600/Thuringer.jpg" height="294" width="320" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">The German
wine tasting experience is a bit different than ones I have done elsewhere. There
was no “flight,” where I was guided through a sampling of specific 3-8 wines
that were chosen for a structured “wine tasting.” Instead, I was presented with
a sheet of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> the wines produced by
Thüringer—totaling around thirty styles and/or grape varietals. Fortunately,
this was not Marcel’s first rodeo, and he informed me that we were to pick and
choose which wines we would like to taste, and at the end, buy a bottle or two
of our favorites. I happily acquiesced, and owing to my friend’s direction
(there were many varietals I had never heard of before), I was soon the owner
of a couple of bottles the ones I had liked best—a dry rosé and an unfamiliar <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%BCller-Thurgau" target="_blank">Müller-Thurgau</a>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">After our
first stop and before our next one, we paused for lunch in a small countryside
town. (Then again, in the German countryside, what “towns” are not small?) We pulled
up to a restaurant built onto the side of an aging—or so I thought—watermill.
It turned out that the owner of the watermill is Marcel’s business associate;
he was kind enough to give us a brief tour of the grounds and its machinery. To
my surprise, inside the old brick walls was a factory full of 21<sup>st</sup>
century wheat-processing technology, including a modern watermill machine to
generate power. To finish the tour, the proprietor gifted us a five-kilo bag of
fine wheat. We said our thank yous and made our way next door to the
restaurant, lunching on traditional and tasty local fare of meat and potatoes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcs1CdsinU3aq_aXGo7A17qajJ2wgX4lxd3gPk7I2BiOb_vZIxTyUDojapPiQKyYpfakCIsfKzTYJfrNRk5aSSjwIIuE15njgxcqFzPulwVmiJnLn68HXn3EAYhT2MhEzFeuU7CbRGz84/s1600/Watermill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcs1CdsinU3aq_aXGo7A17qajJ2wgX4lxd3gPk7I2BiOb_vZIxTyUDojapPiQKyYpfakCIsfKzTYJfrNRk5aSSjwIIuE15njgxcqFzPulwVmiJnLn68HXn3EAYhT2MhEzFeuU7CbRGz84/s1600/Watermill.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"> The watermill
as seen from the restaurant’s outdoor patio.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">Finishing our
meal, we used extra spatulas from the kitchen to pry us off the booths, as we
had sweat ourselves into the seat material while eating. (I suppose that part
of the historic “authenticity” of the watermill and attached restaurant was the
lack of air conditioning.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">The post-lunch
digestif was at Pawis winery, built on top of a nearby hill and on the site of
a medieval monastery. What the monks of long ago began, Pawis winemakers gladly
and artfully continue today. Fortunately for us, the winery was not as
“authentic” as our lunch spot, and we slowly sampled not a small number of
their craft products in the cool air of modern technology. The tasting was of
the same format as the previous one, but I enjoyed the wines here a tad more,
as did Marcel. We readily purchased a few bottles and walked around the scenic
grounds.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"><br /></span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1vGVumZcIaU-yAqbxp0ZF-_aUIs2Vk46qz7pwRl7DWFOAIPUHQo-MOGOqOZM_EqyuRS_qre3BHE5kO08iGEegrlsj00djUeCJQQ_57Xj_CruVmDCUVpTF82nKjEzlA6JEibiuRicg7U/s1600/Monastery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1vGVumZcIaU-yAqbxp0ZF-_aUIs2Vk46qz7pwRl7DWFOAIPUHQo-MOGOqOZM_EqyuRS_qre3BHE5kO08iGEegrlsj00djUeCJQQ_57Xj_CruVmDCUVpTF82nKjEzlA6JEibiuRicg7U/s1600/Monastery.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">Unfortunately, the other inebriated tourists had left the
backdrop by this point.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfodI8CxZN-Rz_WWH7EOSZ8MtgNLC7ndE0zRjb8uMsaI3Vaylw134sfFcPVpZf5HBrWVl9Hnb47r0AT7L6T06sGKPFqu4dqmOyNmw7Jw38Z6_SogZIGh9_nAz2e7-MwSRnwzY4Sb8cJp8/s1600/Grounds1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfodI8CxZN-Rz_WWH7EOSZ8MtgNLC7ndE0zRjb8uMsaI3Vaylw134sfFcPVpZf5HBrWVl9Hnb47r0AT7L6T06sGKPFqu4dqmOyNmw7Jw38Z6_SogZIGh9_nAz2e7-MwSRnwzY4Sb8cJp8/s1600/Grounds1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">The satellite makes for a nice juxtaposition of
centuries.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbBYX2HMqhIcrvVPrnIzheJqp1PnhTpfyQuftO7vnr0t2buJ7N6nSNUXf30VE_56_KOUj0E4tZ2Voj5bcLF4zj3DG-d03BH7jtn1g3HwyRqZ718PCzrnwiA-oKz3ey7lmd_AfW3C_HYY/s1600/Grounds2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbBYX2HMqhIcrvVPrnIzheJqp1PnhTpfyQuftO7vnr0t2buJ7N6nSNUXf30VE_56_KOUj0E4tZ2Voj5bcLF4zj3DG-d03BH7jtn1g3HwyRqZ718PCzrnwiA-oKz3ey7lmd_AfW3C_HYY/s1600/Grounds2.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">Green-ermany</span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"></span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">This wine
tasting experience, as well as many other of my Deutschland adventures, are
entirely a product of the generosity of my dear friends, Marcel and Nancy.
Thank you, to both of you. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">Stay tuned
for Prague!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0s33W4NydYIKVQ-nNNPWn_4BLQIRG074NBPWrH_DP3miosGMY4ckRGcbyMIfxXvN4ObQeQQf4YztHaTGjYFIkWFgO5h5aQqMWfvxe9vuyDZlAHA92NFvSe1DF5JchH15X8_DIW9SJ83Y/s1600/Me+backdrop.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0s33W4NydYIKVQ-nNNPWn_4BLQIRG074NBPWrH_DP3miosGMY4ckRGcbyMIfxXvN4ObQeQQf4YztHaTGjYFIkWFgO5h5aQqMWfvxe9vuyDZlAHA92NFvSe1DF5JchH15X8_DIW9SJ83Y/s1600/Me+backdrop.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";">Full-smiles can be a challenge in sweltering heat.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"></span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face";"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>
</div>
TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-5268743358273706202013-06-30T18:39:00.000+02:002013-07-11T13:13:17.690+02:00The First Days<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
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</style><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">
After fourteen hours of international travel, I blundered out
of the small airplane and into hot, humid air of a Bavarian summer day. As the
plane unloaded us onto the tarmac, all of the passengers were required to board
a little shuttle bus so that it could transport us the actual terminal that was
literally less than fifty feet away. Too tired to try and make a quip about the
absurdity of such procedures, I obliged and was soon (thankfully) collecting my
one checked piece of luggage.<br />
<br />
A little confused by the complete lack of needing to declare anything to
customs, I made my way out of the baggage claim area and into the warm embraces
of my expectant friends, the couple-to-be. Madlen, Georg and I were soon
catching up, reminiscing, and talking about their wedding the following day and
honeymoon thereafter.<br />
<br />
The afternoon progressed through their pretty city of Nuremberg, situated on
top of the Pegnitz river that weaves its way around the hills, into other
waterways, and finally into the Black Sea. When there was no lush greenery to
do so, old remnants of castle walls and fortified ramparts lined the sides of
this slowly flowing river (see <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichPJ_WgGA3IZSFNLAx8XhfmQmpcjsUNtqA5u6UBFqbYurKSdFW7Mv5mV289iZlOCmq6zRkK8mv4Og3vCpddc9W-uF-XGpnXak_G6qRkmj56_QvpeHXSMhL2PLZkH-pKdxsuFgfk8YrLY/s1600/Nuremberg+1.jpg" target="_blank">the last photo</a> of previous <a href="http://theramblingnomad.blogspot.com/2013/06/setting-off.html" target="_blank">post</a>). They took
me up to a castle-turned-hostel atop of the highest hill in town, host of a
great view of the city:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyhcvWSfqs_UuqlETZDsokOGksX8YYtrHD-DXNernREWTN2xMW9m0XURAVDbdI6bw6K3haCVl4BseJ0NHcxl_D5SFbv9aToZMucG92Slbns8VQUl2TCbBPMTDBRoYFBRBGFCTtk2iq9k/s1600/Georg+&+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyhcvWSfqs_UuqlETZDsokOGksX8YYtrHD-DXNernREWTN2xMW9m0XURAVDbdI6bw6K3haCVl4BseJ0NHcxl_D5SFbv9aToZMucG92Slbns8VQUl2TCbBPMTDBRoYFBRBGFCTtk2iq9k/s320/Georg+&+Me.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br />The last photo of Georg while still technically “single.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
</style><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">
Afterwards, they asked a question that hardly needed to be posed—if
I cared to accompany them to the local “beer gardens” to enjoy a cold, fresh
sample of their local pride. I quickly and kindly agreed, though it was all I
could do to hold my travel-induced narcolepsy at bay. We lounged around on
beach chairs in the grass, sipping the delectable, master-brewed <i>Tucher</i>
hefeweizen while staring up at the twilight summer sky through tree branches
green with fertility.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_5odr01-Y-yT0jOoANT6m-O9oSTiFZML8R_EAL7Rf_VgZcHDOw6l9IskyA4CA_LBQoYyPTpzIeZTSxeQpZqowMmuHWy-0OUJEZOeCWTZdxaw3y3zVFG8Ukkwvyg13EoajPBxY3xb87U/s1600/Nuremberg+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_5odr01-Y-yT0jOoANT6m-O9oSTiFZML8R_EAL7Rf_VgZcHDOw6l9IskyA4CA_LBQoYyPTpzIeZTSxeQpZqowMmuHWy-0OUJEZOeCWTZdxaw3y3zVFG8Ukkwvyg13EoajPBxY3xb87U/s320/Nuremberg+2.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuremberg evening.</i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
</style><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">
Their wedding was held a thirty-minute drive away in an old,
modest, stone-walled church that quite nearly made up half of the countryside
town’s real estate. Madlen and Georg stayed outside, and I entered the church
with my guitar and proceeded to set up. The wedding priest and I began to
attempt communication so as to determine when I would actually play the guitar
during the ceremony; however, this was no easy task as the bride and groom were
unavailable, and he spoke about 4 words of English and I spoke about half that
in German. Fortunately, some other bilingual attendees came to our rescue and
we resolved the issue.<br />
<br />
While I understood very little of what was spoken during the 45-minute service,
it was the pretty and quaint affair that the couple had wished for. (After a
little initial stage fright, I gave my instrumental rendition of Damien Rice’s
“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRARTIdYEqw" target="_blank">Cannonball</a>.”)</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ88tL04q1ISwRjc9pBrbpM2T7FMqFogvTkhc3OmyctW_EtoPRGEya9thDWmZj1BqLHH4_wejqWBfBhWOXytA1Ezit7fuNIooJlV0BYyD750cZ-iGvAY4csk7EQeahuxzSbg0-DxKqpdE/s1600/Newlyweds+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ88tL04q1ISwRjc9pBrbpM2T7FMqFogvTkhc3OmyctW_EtoPRGEya9thDWmZj1BqLHH4_wejqWBfBhWOXytA1Ezit7fuNIooJlV0BYyD750cZ-iGvAY4csk7EQeahuxzSbg0-DxKqpdE/s320/Newlyweds+1.jpg" height="223" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr. and Mrs. Plettner.</i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
</style><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">
Following the wedding, we drove the five minutes to an inn in
the neighboring village, where the reception was held. When everyone had
arrived, a curious event took place: the couple put on leather gloves, grabbed
a hacksaw, and began cutting their way through a log.</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxLrfDbH4gb3eoIzqAUMI_FCGx0kuNPQfqZ2qY22W_50W7QN0uKpX_jsQjtXlJ-KnhmKq9PxNERFnh09WpWUDJx5Ijd652Bc4-QHx44BrPaMaeH5TQSkJGyvWUZEjydYhQevXwW0t9gGk/s1600/Newlyweds+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxLrfDbH4gb3eoIzqAUMI_FCGx0kuNPQfqZ2qY22W_50W7QN0uKpX_jsQjtXlJ-KnhmKq9PxNERFnh09WpWUDJx5Ijd652Bc4-QHx44BrPaMaeH5TQSkJGyvWUZEjydYhQevXwW0t9gGk/s320/Newlyweds+2.jpg" height="257" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<i>Try explaining this scene without context.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br />
</style><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">
Apparently, an old German tradition calls for the newlyweds to
saw a log in two, demonstrating that it is the first of many works they will
complete together throughout their marriage. After a few minutes under the
summer sun, the Plettners were dabbing the sweat from their foreheads, proudly standing
over the wooden halves that lay at their feet.<br />
<br />
The rest of the day was filled eating, drinking, and
merrymaking. As I sat at a table later in the evening, contentedly not sober, I
pondered upon the curious nature of life, or rather, the serendipity of it. The
fact that I sat there at that moment at a wedding in Bavaria was the product of
a relationship that began seven years ago. (In 2006, Madlen’s older brother decided
to move from Germany to Santa Barbara for six months, to do an internship with
the tour company I worked for at the time. Inspired by her brother, three years
later she and Georg did the same, and we became fast friends over kayaks, bicycles,
and barbeques.) Similarly, my imminent move to the Balkans has come about
through friends I made while living in Chile. Who knew that people I befriended
in one faraway corner of the globe would be the reason that drew me to another?<br />
<br />
The trivial details or chance encounters that happen to us now
(or that have already happened to us) may yet have a bearing on how our own
lives will unfold in the future—after all, you cannot rule out possibilities because
you do not even know the future that is brewing right under your own nose at
this very moment. Who knows, shaking that stranger’s hand at a birthday party
tomorrow (or last month) may well have a part to play in your life, big or
small. It may be the catalyst to a new career, to travel, to a spouse, or to a
hand infection; we do not know and life is too short and there just isn’t
enough hand-sanitizer to restrain ourselves from these life-changing handshake
moments.<br />
<br />
The more people you meet, and the more travels you embark upon, the more new and different horizons will open themselves up to you. My own travels and the lives of those around me attest to this idea—there is no telling how it will all turn out in the end.<br />
<br />
So, here’s to the serendipity of life:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB2Rz8w3xPH74fR9OMtvVz9MVMVj3hGeG4xkKj2ISu2vyuSBSx7HgSvqoB61pJClBvleAXM_P0NuPpdZE3kGcGibkT3r_uioeVlO3zXR67hG1wcqYjZvESI-jbIDhis7-IDtu4haN8no4/s640/hef3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB2Rz8w3xPH74fR9OMtvVz9MVMVj3hGeG4xkKj2ISu2vyuSBSx7HgSvqoB61pJClBvleAXM_P0NuPpdZE3kGcGibkT3r_uioeVlO3zXR67hG1wcqYjZvESI-jbIDhis7-IDtu4haN8no4/s320/hef3.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saxony, the site of my coming travels.</i></div>
</div>
TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-2212950701276275472013-06-20T11:37:00.000+02:002013-07-11T13:37:45.951+02:00Setting Off<style>
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</style><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;">At 41,000 feet above the icy waters of the North Atlantic, a sudden nosebleed is the least of my problems. It is just the most pressing one. I am an hour and a half out from a yet another new start: new friends, new jobs, and new horizons—or so I think. There is no shortage of things that could go wrong and prevent the unfolding of this next chapter in my life, and I am currently pinching my nostrils as tight as possible with bloodied fingers while trying not to create a scene on the crowded aircraft. At just over a leggy six feet, it can be a little challenging to escape the clutches of an airplane seat while doing one’s best not to bump into and wake up everyone around you in the process. Several disgruntled passengers later, I had cleaned myself up in the bathroom, and returned to my thoughts regarding my impending change of life events.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And this
was before the person in front of me reclined their seat.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">At this point, my imminent future depends upon the
benevolence of some German immigration official who I will stand before and
plead my case. I do not believe in any sort of destiny or fate; if the official
lets me in, I was fortunate with my persuasion, if not, I could very soon find
myself deported from Deutschland and on a flight back across the Atlantic to the
US. It is as simple as that—no need to involve cosmic powers guiding
events here on earth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">This possibility is the case because I have a
one-way ticket to Germany, and not too much proof that I am going to eventually
leave the country. I will, if all goes according to plan. But with some kind of
copied "promise to hire" from a school in the Balkans as my only
proof, I am not so sure at this point. A German tourist's visa was not an
option as it is fairly contingent on your bank account's balance for the past
three months; mine has resembled that of a teenager's savings from a
once-a-week paper delivery job for about as long as I can remember.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Speaking of which, if all goes according to
(haphazard) plan and I am allowed into Germany, my fate is still uncertain. I
could quite frankly be sleeping on park benches very soon, and if I am lucky,
getting meager under-the-table wages from some hostel or fruit-picking job.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But before any of that, however, I have got to make
it through my guitar performance at the wedding I will be attending in two
days. I have essentially—but not completely—learned a couple of songs for the
event, and the happy couple-to-be will choose which one they like best.
Hopefully, I will not ruin the reflective moment after the vows with a
half-learned medley. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I also know about 3 words of the language of the
Balkan country I am moving to—none of which is appropriate for an audience with
grandparents, children, or frankly outside of a bar. Informing my opinion of
said country is the culmination of an hour or two skimming Lonely Planet,
Wikipedia, and the CIA World Factbook websites.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Perhaps this lack of planning would be viewed as
altogether blasé and irresponsible for a man of twenty-seven, and for others,
it would be the assurance of "failing." Rightly so, for many folks:
all of this would be the making of a failure—for them. Failure has never been
nor will ever be an option for me—it motivates me to survive, succeed, and
exceed. Granted, I have never moved somewhere new with so little preparation
and pocket change, but being dangled so closely over the fires of homelessness,
poverty, and isolation only motivates me more. I will be all right in the
end; I know because I always have been. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The following blog entries will attest to this, and
so much more, as I once again make my way into the unknown.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxuySwJcIY5DoPlrhTywxxDovtZin640JA_mf_xwOTlFZZt6zT9QTab64dRA9hyphenhyphenlRhuIYfxHopgGiHgpeaaW4Tm3xebVvQg3Uf_L3z_FVB91-IA-5sRBeZXqUwxLFX_547-A5dXrupUg/s1600/Life.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxuySwJcIY5DoPlrhTywxxDovtZin640JA_mf_xwOTlFZZt6zT9QTab64dRA9hyphenhyphenlRhuIYfxHopgGiHgpeaaW4Tm3xebVvQg3Uf_L3z_FVB91-IA-5sRBeZXqUwxLFX_547-A5dXrupUg/s1600/Life.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Travel:
the art of downsizing.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">(The previous entry was largely written on the plane
before reaching the European continent. At time of publication: I was let into
Germany without so much as a question—literally—and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>apparently my guitar performance was not half bad as I was
asked to play at another wedding in September.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichPJ_WgGA3IZSFNLAx8XhfmQmpcjsUNtqA5u6UBFqbYurKSdFW7Mv5mV289iZlOCmq6zRkK8mv4Og3vCpddc9W-uF-XGpnXak_G6qRkmj56_QvpeHXSMhL2PLZkH-pKdxsuFgfk8YrLY/s1600/Nuremberg+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichPJ_WgGA3IZSFNLAx8XhfmQmpcjsUNtqA5u6UBFqbYurKSdFW7Mv5mV289iZlOCmq6zRkK8mv4Og3vCpddc9W-uF-XGpnXak_G6qRkmj56_QvpeHXSMhL2PLZkH-pKdxsuFgfk8YrLY/s1600/Nuremberg+1.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Enjoying a
Bavarian summer day.</span></i></div>
</span>TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-60413420432084258922012-05-28T03:27:00.001+02:002012-09-10T01:06:05.572+02:00Let's Get Ready to Ramble<style>
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As most of you probably know, I came to Chile back in February
of this year, once again heading into the unknown. This time, it was to another
hemisphere. Another continent. Another direction in which the toilet flushes. I
headed to a country which is the spine of the Andes Mountains, with the driest
desert in the world in the north, and the lush forests, countless lakes, and
majestic glaciers of Patagonia in the south. It’s the end of the world, but not
in the Mayan Calendar sense.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYiXfwD_Gdi41cPv4mJVYzglFI9POML9aCYL-elYDwno78DBUMMVEuCdDTa8KFu5AU0RPRinPA2YIemR3t6jDQZ1a4xjTFsvHUjRINakG9gl2OHbvHVfABlCAQ4RvooQSAyx03XvdbVVk/s1600/Blog+pic1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYiXfwD_Gdi41cPv4mJVYzglFI9POML9aCYL-elYDwno78DBUMMVEuCdDTa8KFu5AU0RPRinPA2YIemR3t6jDQZ1a4xjTFsvHUjRINakG9gl2OHbvHVfABlCAQ4RvooQSAyx03XvdbVVk/s320/Blog+pic1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Torres del Paine, Chile.</i> </div>
<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Santiago, Chile: my new home.</i> </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
It was in the works for quite some time, actually. I first
started planning a move around January 2011. After a lot of researching and reflecting,
Chile struck me as a safe yet adventurous, culturally vibrant destination.
However, before I start chronicling the next step in my life, I must wrap up my
time in Mexico.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
In <b><a href="http://theramblingnomad.blogspot.com/2011/09/1-1-two.html" target="_blank">another post</a></b>, I mentioned <b><i>albur</i></b> (double entendres)<i>, </i>with Mexican <i><b>chorizo</b></i> as an example.
For the non-Mexicans
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</style><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">—</span> and thus the innocent of the world
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">—</span>
“<b><i>chile</i></b>”
is normally a hot sauce or spicy salsa which you have with food, or could refer
to plant from which the pepper comes, or lastly, could refer to the country
itself. Well, as it so happens, “<b><i>chile</i></b>” is also an <b><i>albur</i></b>,
referring to the male member again (for a change).</div>
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<br /></div>
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The following is an example of a typical conversation I would
have with just about any <b><i>paisano</i></b> (compatriot) once they
discovered I was leaving:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="color: #cccccc; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<u>Paisano</u>: “A dónde te vas a mudar?” (“Where are you
moving to?”)</div>
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<u>Me</u>: “Me voy a Chile!” (“I’m going to move to Chile!”)</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="color: #cccccc; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<u>Paisano</u>: “<b><i>Al</i></b> chile? Por qué tan lejos, cuando
lo tienes aquí?” (“<b><i>To the</i></b> chile? Why so far, when you have it right here?”)</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<u>Me</u>: “No, no, dije <b><i>a</i></b> Chile, no dije <b><i>al</i></b>
chile!” (“No, no, I said <b>to</b> Chile, I
didn’t say <b>to the</b> chile!!”)</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="color: #cccccc; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<u>Paisano</u>: (laughter)</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<u>Me</u>: “A parte, ya me enfadé <b><i>del</i></b> chile de aquí. Busco
algo mas exótico.” (“Besides, I’m sick of <b><i>of the </i></b>chile here, I’m looking for
something more exotic.”)</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="color: #666666; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<div style="color: #cccccc;">
<u>Paisano</u>: “¿Oh sí? ¡¡Pues que te vaya bien <b><i>al</i></b>
chile!!” (“Oh yeah? Well, have fun with <b>the</b>
chile!”)</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikWFcefucKDyhx6WXE3z9jP_L6_JmMSJVWBn0cZ8dcixnZegSrGuA74GEtpenGH6PDI1zSMid8U6yzyVQm5cIdfnDuKLxq0Yd3aDS0s_h_uZVhmUFBxNHK0WZJmou-YPG-ZzVyM-GerUI/s1600/blog+chile+pepper.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikWFcefucKDyhx6WXE3z9jP_L6_JmMSJVWBn0cZ8dcixnZegSrGuA74GEtpenGH6PDI1zSMid8U6yzyVQm5cIdfnDuKLxq0Yd3aDS0s_h_uZVhmUFBxNHK0WZJmou-YPG-ZzVyM-GerUI/s1600/blog+chile+pepper.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVPjIBEcSFXUMWbRahfy_BGJh89BT_ZDoGzHEIJI-mV3JO4p6Tr8VRa4tV5cg-f92jasJHZSrk0NWpiBI_RtbXoCGi14BfVT4y0amlM-7hzne74f_H-52hIgQs3tBaqfZQ6SaoyKj230/s1600/blog+chile+pic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVPjIBEcSFXUMWbRahfy_BGJh89BT_ZDoGzHEIJI-mV3JO4p6Tr8VRa4tV5cg-f92jasJHZSrk0NWpiBI_RtbXoCGi14BfVT4y0amlM-7hzne74f_H-52hIgQs3tBaqfZQ6SaoyKj230/s1600/blog+chile+pic.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<i>To illustrate the
linguistic dissonance.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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I stopped working for the Jalisco-based English school chain,
United Languages (UL), at the end of January. It's cliché, but it was definitely the closing of one life chapter
and the beginning of another. If it were not for all I had learned as a teacher
and a director at UL, I would not have been as confident or prepared
(professionally) to take the leap to South America. I started work at UL not
even knowing how many tenses there were in English, nor what the difference
between a subject and object was, and not even close to knowing what
participial adjectives or intransitive verbs might have been. I was not able to give educational, dynamic, interesting, and fun classes; or a least, they were few and far between. If had arrived to
Chile like that, I would not have been able to get the job I now have, and my
work options would have been decisively more limited on the whole. I am very
appreciative of my time at UL, for the coworkers who became friends, and for
the students who enabled me to pursue my dream of being a teacher. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A last show with the old band at a <b>despedida</b>.</i> </div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<i>Some friends &
coworkers at another of my <b>despedidas</b></i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
So I quit my job January 31<sup>st</sup>, and my departure
from Mexico City was February 9<sup>th</sup>; as you might well imagine
those nine days were an emotional and geographic flurry of <b><i>despedidas</i></b> (good-byes),
last tequilas, giving away/packing things, and little sleep. And of those nine, I decided to spend my last four
days in the country in a new place: the capital, Mexico City.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<i>(So before I start
detailing the rest of my last week in Mexico, let me just interrupt and say I’m
going to be narrating my last several months in parts: Mexico City [this post];
Panama, Chile [pt. I], Argentina, and Chile [pt. II] in posts to come. So now you have something to
look forward to after this entry!)</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Mexico
City </i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
Before I tell you anything else about the place, I’d just like
to restate the fact that one of the things I love
most about travel is that it necessarily shatters <b><a href="http://theramblingnomad.blogspot.com/2009/11/realizing-mexico.html" target="_blank">my ignorance about the rest of the world</a></b>. We are all given a certain image of a place or a people by films,
news, and the word of others, and we are unable to experience or understand
completely a place by such means. Yes, Mexico City can be dangerous, and it has
barrios that you would not want to enter at just about any hour of the day, but
is that so different than the capital cities of other countries? I think not.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
The food was amazing, and completely different than the
cuisine of more northern and central Jalisco, the state of my former residence.
There were different ingredients and flavors to dishes I had had in other parts
of the country, aside from there being entirely new fare as well! The traffic and bad
drivers lived up to their respective reputations, but were not impossible to
deal with. Additionally, I was not kidnapped or mugged, my pockets were not
picked, I was not offered drugs, I did not get sick from the food; in short, I
lived to tell about it. Maybe I was lucky, or maybe my experience was nothing
out of the ordinary.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i>I took this one: the
Aztec Stone of the Sun!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
The city holds so many treasures that it was difficult to see
even a fraction of them in four days. With around 160+ museums, 100+ art
galleries, and 30+ concert halls, you could take a month and still not see and
do everything. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Museo_Nacional_de_Antropolog%C3%ADa" target="_blank">The Museum of Anthropology</a> alone was worth the visit;
being able to see immense collection of artifacts, murals, and sculptures of my
pre-Columbian ancestors from long ago is an experience that I will never forget. Walking out
of the museum, you enter <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chapultepec" target="_blank">Chapultepec Park</a>, an enormous park in the
middle of the city which is the biggest city park in Latin America, and is
twice the size of Central Park in New York. Chapultepec Castle lies atop of
Chapultepec Hill in Chapultepec park, just in case you started to forget the
name of where you are. The site of the Castle has been witness to various
important moments in Mexico’s history, from being a retreat of Aztec rulers to
being a pivotal standoff in the Mexican-American war.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
Ok, ok, enough with the LonelyPlanet and Travel Channel
documentary babble, and back to expelling my own ignorance.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00jEkbD1sdLNymI996tB2efkZiX17uENCeCocBNYchsTBVp8cqgS0sEVSgjtr72ZaXzZQGWgl9jqwNuIXxfIcKCYEGnf93EyrJQXJo0kcqqgd4JrKtkchW-0xtAUvBWOju7q95mGIP7U/s1600/blog+pic+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00jEkbD1sdLNymI996tB2efkZiX17uENCeCocBNYchsTBVp8cqgS0sEVSgjtr72ZaXzZQGWgl9jqwNuIXxfIcKCYEGnf93EyrJQXJo0kcqqgd4JrKtkchW-0xtAUvBWOju7q95mGIP7U/s320/blog+pic+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Happiness in Xochimilco.</i></div>
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On the outskirts of Mexico City lies what is “the last” of the
lake on which Mexico City was built. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xochimilco" target="_blank">Xochimilco</a> is a haven of tall trees
lining meandering waterways, and I would not have even known I was just a few
miles from downtown of one of the biggest cities in the world were it not for
the faint lull of cars on a highway in the distance. Birds flapped lazily
through the air and geese nudged each other along the riverbank as the captain
of our gondola-type boat pushed us down the canals with an oar, dare I say reminiscent
of Venice? As I sat there on the little boat, staring off at the mountains in
the distance, I realized that my time in Mexico had come to an end, and that I
would very soon be looking at the Andes Mountains of South America.</div>
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I must say that it was only because of my family that I was
only able to fully enjoy this final week that I spent in the capital city. Some
cousins put me up at their house, and had their expert local driver take me
around to see the sights during the day, and at night we’d go have dinner or
coffee at some intriguing venue. The way I began my time in Mexico was also the
perfect way to conclude it: in the company of family. In my two and a half
years in Mexico, I grew close to many of my relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins,
second cousins, cousins twice removed on an uncle’s brother’s side, etc.—so
much so that my idea of “family” transformed altogether. My aunts and uncles
had become my surrogate caretakers: with a loving smile they’d cook for
me, give me advice, and make sure I left the house with a jacket. Of all my first cousins I am the
youngest, and they were very much like older siblings:
they’d give me a ride (and a hard time) when needed, invite me to their houses
to spend the holidays, and meet up for an occasional drink or taco to discuss life. Becoming
a part this familial social network was one of the best experiences of my time
in Mexico; words cannot express my gratitude and love for those I share it
with.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ziP0vFPXKgLlRxKoh6F3c-H0BP1p63qzzV_tdJLWF0r_G7Vl80AjtDv76NU2bqu_mlI03aaagkyShBGDHAoEdPVdUp_csFZ-PEXKy5KVRMPV6uxJHmVQAc5-AypMNlvrRWL3nFiOUx8/s1600/blog+cesar+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ziP0vFPXKgLlRxKoh6F3c-H0BP1p63qzzV_tdJLWF0r_G7Vl80AjtDv76NU2bqu_mlI03aaagkyShBGDHAoEdPVdUp_csFZ-PEXKy5KVRMPV6uxJHmVQAc5-AypMNlvrRWL3nFiOUx8/s320/blog+cesar+pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>With my <b>primo</b> (cousin) César at Teotihuacán, just outside Mexico City.</i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrJNuj-SZVQhPObJPFFToaa_Ia68rABh5tiPr3xdIDKMxkxfLGQdvPNTc4aTHgXDWmhyhO9-l9ay9R8VNtUrmFPW_f1ZUvxqcgv-9Ik_KhjN8B7waB4xdY6u_dVZ4DCHKM_xtGXVHKmw/s1600/blog+ale+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrJNuj-SZVQhPObJPFFToaa_Ia68rABh5tiPr3xdIDKMxkxfLGQdvPNTc4aTHgXDWmhyhO9-l9ay9R8VNtUrmFPW_f1ZUvxqcgv-9Ik_KhjN8B7waB4xdY6u_dVZ4DCHKM_xtGXVHKmw/s320/blog+ale+pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>With my <b>sobrina</b> ("niece"/daughter of my first cousin) Ale.</i></div>
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I am already acutely aware of the lack of family in my new
environment, but alas, it reminds me of the cost of my travels. My friends and
family back in the States have graduated, gotten married, passed away, had
children, broken up, gotten divorced, or moved away in the time since I have
left, and I regret not having been there with them (with you) through these milestones
and misfortunes. However, that is the cost I must pay for leaving the nest to
know the world. The flipside though, is that I regret that you haven’t shared
with me the places I’ve been, the food I’ve eaten, the people I’ve met, the
laughs I’ve had, the waters I’ve swum, the sights I’ve seen, the tears I’ve
shed, the mischief I’ve escaped…in short, the adventures I’ve had since
boarding that plane a few years ago.</div>
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So to those of you that accompany me here through my writings:
thank you. I appreciate getting to share glimpses of my journey with you.</div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">(Soon to come: Panama in Less than a Day)</span></i><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;"> </span>TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-17262579843716266292011-09-08T08:24:00.016+02:002011-09-08T19:43:07.486+02:001 + 1 = TwoHoly guacamole. It’s been one year since my last post, and two years to the day that I’ve been in Mexico. Can you believe it? I hardly can.<br /><br />Well, let’s jump into it. I’ll try and follow some kind of chronological order for the past year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8H9Zsw7EVMe8AjUVso2zNFZk1xCFZlPfmDke78y8tKj2vUOeesLZ2D5xr00uOnHCKQpa4kIpcqw3flb8NLvMf7FyemnmdCCxI_C0L9XOsLtF43WJTOJICsl4iGboubWa_e4UT6_Or5yU/s1600/Feb+Grad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8H9Zsw7EVMe8AjUVso2zNFZk1xCFZlPfmDke78y8tKj2vUOeesLZ2D5xr00uOnHCKQpa4kIpcqw3flb8NLvMf7FyemnmdCCxI_C0L9XOsLtF43WJTOJICsl4iGboubWa_e4UT6_Or5yU/s320/Feb+Grad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649871017833718722" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">One of the several graduations of the past year.</span><br /></div><br />Well, in my last post (a year ago) I said that the school I worked for was going to make me a supervisor or something. As it turned out, a little while after that post, they offered me the position of the general academic supervisor of the five schools they run in different parts of the state (Jalisco). After some contemplation, I accepted the promotion and began in January of this year.<br /><br />I have learned much about the administrative side of running things at a school, and the various problems and successes one encounters in this line of work. What my job now entails is being in touch with the different schools’ supervisors regarding the various comings and goings at each school; overseeing their graduations; implementing new, company-wide policies and practices to make the services more efficient; visiting each school with some regularity to talk with students about the service and possibly give a class or two; completely redesigning the four-level course curriculum all the schools use; creating a teacher's training manual for how to teach the classes that we offer; continuing to teach class in addition to the above mentioned responsibilities. Needless to say, it keeps me busy. I’m happy doing it, and thankful for how I’ve grown personally and professionally.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEny6W2s2x9MJTncc3M-Di8rjan9BjDe-fJrentrRySO92QAbp0cWOmm9iVCm2KTMCogYF44EWGZUapKGI4IYmknv0_1y4WXAszzrNohIAsJgRgM8-kPfSniH9UCi23M_pde2EIS7HQA/s1600/teachers+and+me.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEny6W2s2x9MJTncc3M-Di8rjan9BjDe-fJrentrRySO92QAbp0cWOmm9iVCm2KTMCogYF44EWGZUapKGI4IYmknv0_1y4WXAszzrNohIAsJgRgM8-kPfSniH9UCi23M_pde2EIS7HQA/s320/teachers+and+me.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649871648367641554" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Some coworkers. I'm kind of being squished in this one.</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2g3arSpisrVP5ru3W3_CUGqU_0f6xI8CnMp7ddswEVy5XAQaIoHjuJ0NfnbsyhVL8muuj9BH89W-mftzuIQB9Os4RGEKbGu2JKuDJMtlbvTrqcEJl2SM-jSlQrvY8OBVgZY-LeCdD_4/s1600/J%2526J+show.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2g3arSpisrVP5ru3W3_CUGqU_0f6xI8CnMp7ddswEVy5XAQaIoHjuJ0NfnbsyhVL8muuj9BH89W-mftzuIQB9Os4RGEKbGu2JKuDJMtlbvTrqcEJl2SM-jSlQrvY8OBVgZY-LeCdD_4/s320/J%2526J+show.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649872236434884514" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Rocking</span>.<br /></div><br />In the last post, I talked about having formed a rock group—“Jack & James”—with some of my friends. Beginning around February or March this year we started playing gigs around Guadalajara, the second-biggest city in the country, and only a half hour away from my town. We played at various bars and events around the city, thanks to friends in other bands who were helping us gain publicity. In June, we even played in a “battle of the bands” against a collective total of around 20 or so other bands. We got to the final round, but did not place; however, it was a good experience, and we got in touch with other bands for future events. In July we did a mini-tour, playing further north in the state (Jalisco), in addition to almost having in a show in neighboring Zacatecas, but just before we got on stage, it started raining so we couldn’t play. (The event was outdoors.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLOvFbn-q3olV6aab3hxA28Dp1EzSkP4T9pthEvHJh9gBxPxbvpwCfDUCoIXTC_KajFIGLRKYYNvJ2dD3gUtpyeaTkqpK2h2fazgEL-1xOelAEWvstMrl5LE3r2kdv4Y2kqu0se1JIGw/s1600/competition+pic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLOvFbn-q3olV6aab3hxA28Dp1EzSkP4T9pthEvHJh9gBxPxbvpwCfDUCoIXTC_KajFIGLRKYYNvJ2dD3gUtpyeaTkqpK2h2fazgEL-1xOelAEWvstMrl5LE3r2kdv4Y2kqu0se1JIGw/s320/competition+pic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649872502446074402" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jack & James at the battle of the bands.</span><br /></div><br />A few weeks ago I left the band due to reasons of needing more time for myself. As you probably gathered from my blurb on my job, my work alone keeps me pretty busy. With the addition of Jack & James consuming more and more of my time, it just proved to be too much for me. I’ve gotten sick a lot recently and even lost a few pounds as a result of not having enough time to take care of myself properly. I will say playing in Jack & James was a great experience, and unlike anything I’ve done before musically; I now have many good memories that I’ll cherish of the year and a half spent with them. (They continue to play, as they have already found another guitar player.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yrgvVrD25UiAANSQt1-eAVWcCzqQidSEx5hr_I3dPMnjrrNdEBbumrBOkFRTSQuKtO3GmsMX28OaTgXHhmgbPlNNyFOY_MCs-PJIIWk-XUyLL0Ku2WR2-mEbq91xmk4H7D3HCyebQgk/s1600/zip1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yrgvVrD25UiAANSQt1-eAVWcCzqQidSEx5hr_I3dPMnjrrNdEBbumrBOkFRTSQuKtO3GmsMX28OaTgXHhmgbPlNNyFOY_MCs-PJIIWk-XUyLL0Ku2WR2-mEbq91xmk4H7D3HCyebQgk/s320/zip1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649873017735689842" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I love that shirt. I think it makes an appearance in</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">just about every blog entry.</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fpcZEsRfyf7DXNoZipfUQPARqgyfxm1U9k5_IAE_voTtgon6DcT6I-wK4pnfESiKAbVS_nrWxDiCepx5b6yHTxgKjTsY1hI5olzvVGUSGT7YpslNpUpanynGYXWgzKNQ1f-lmS8dXhE/s1600/zip2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fpcZEsRfyf7DXNoZipfUQPARqgyfxm1U9k5_IAE_voTtgon6DcT6I-wK4pnfESiKAbVS_nrWxDiCepx5b6yHTxgKjTsY1hI5olzvVGUSGT7YpslNpUpanynGYXWgzKNQ1f-lmS8dXhE/s320/zip2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649873434981454770" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Zip-lining for the first time was fun.</span><br /></div><br />I guess I should also mention a little about my Spanish. I would consider myself fluent, but not bilingual. For me, “bilingual” entails the same level of proficiency of both languages, which I do not have; whereas “fluent” implies an ability to speak…uh…fluently. I guess a very Mexican bit of evidence for this is my ability to use swear words and <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">albur</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Albur</span> is any type of comment that can be interpreted two ways: one way, innocently, and the second way, well…scandalously. Example: <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">chorizo</span> is a type of Mexican sausage (you can already imagine where this is going). So, being innocent and unaware of the second connotation of the word, I was asked very frequently when I first got here, “Chris, do you like <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">chorizo</span>?” And unwittingly I’d respond, “Yeah, it’s really tasty!” ignorantly thinking I was only talking about food, and not the male member. You can imagine the reaction of the people who asked. Well, for better or worse, it suffices to say that it’s no longer so easy to take advantage of me with <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">albur</span>, and I’ve actually made it my mission to help out any newcomers so they don’t find themselves in the same situation. I view it as a type of foreign aid.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSMpzUn9-WSgFdqrtBucOiHa2ZudzkKgtY4HULA4CWqM1SNhVV38TakllQwJcf_9A4GckH30rzp_Vg_Ur0v-AipMeBaiIg5TtBsrhpHjq6wayNi8SnOdErD66GkIU7Z2zMl2lBI_LH7s/s1600/chorizo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSMpzUn9-WSgFdqrtBucOiHa2ZudzkKgtY4HULA4CWqM1SNhVV38TakllQwJcf_9A4GckH30rzp_Vg_Ur0v-AipMeBaiIg5TtBsrhpHjq6wayNi8SnOdErD66GkIU7Z2zMl2lBI_LH7s/s320/chorizo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649877312134428578" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Chorizo...it's all so clear now.</span><br /><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh9zgPhmwuZdErTDG4WPFgmcUzjiFeGtRn2wnWP0MQClTLga2D9VRAi9eBTl34VM_CZLMbTK2zKfkWc1N2iMsWhvmFHHB0ejfCHlOfHuCr9qinz7ftsm7T4FFmyp4rTlgRO-9i58s8e8/s1600/039.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh9zgPhmwuZdErTDG4WPFgmcUzjiFeGtRn2wnWP0MQClTLga2D9VRAi9eBTl34VM_CZLMbTK2zKfkWc1N2iMsWhvmFHHB0ejfCHlOfHuCr9qinz7ftsm7T4FFmyp4rTlgRO-9i58s8e8/s320/039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649874271514306850" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Dad & Sons, Lake Chapala.</span><br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEQvKcyoMViAmL8xrwwRedmdYBDc8-QWDHBUVGJzl9W5GMGS74-hQ3gTr0gLIMgquPa4mLto3sj5SwO_UIJUJQhcaySwBLnBsW_JvMXNvzcFcZfg_Ea80ecEMq17wS7qUXGZ_mjqr-5U/s1600/mommarkfamily.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEQvKcyoMViAmL8xrwwRedmdYBDc8-QWDHBUVGJzl9W5GMGS74-hQ3gTr0gLIMgquPa4mLto3sj5SwO_UIJUJQhcaySwBLnBsW_JvMXNvzcFcZfg_Ea80ecEMq17wS7qUXGZ_mjqr-5U/s320/mommarkfamily.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649874726778367026" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My mom, Mark, and a </span><span style="font-style: italic;">small</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> fraction of my family.</span><br /></div><br /><br />My parents and my brother came to visit me last October, which was nice—a little slice of my other home for a little bit. Speaking of my other home, I’m headed back to Santa Barbara for a couple of weeks at the beginning of November! I look forward to seeing any of you who will be around then!<br /><br />That wraps it up for this entry. I intend to post another entry in a few weeks...but we'll see how that timeframe pans out! <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span></span>I'll leave you with this saying:<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" id="result_box" class="short_text" lang="es"><span class="hps">¡</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Portense mal, pero cuidense bien! </span></span>("Go on and misbehave, just take care of yourselves!")TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-65085826642918925712010-09-10T21:29:00.002+02:002010-09-10T21:30:19.992+02:00One Year!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhcgdEDsCGpGfrZQjkPqH_co9xT7FOETMhP7ozZIeNomQOBuMYINNTmADjAmsaBctT5R_U_VNTmHMn6PX5YVyvWR1ltvIdzv5fucKkDya7BfWm3t6YZfNwMv6BEvmeJfh-zvzkHGtlz8/s1600/chap+lake.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhcgdEDsCGpGfrZQjkPqH_co9xT7FOETMhP7ozZIeNomQOBuMYINNTmADjAmsaBctT5R_U_VNTmHMn6PX5YVyvWR1ltvIdzv5fucKkDya7BfWm3t6YZfNwMv6BEvmeJfh-zvzkHGtlz8/s320/chap+lake.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461274301415773234" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Lake Chapala at sunset.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0waFnPOeJtP0IPcNiQpNUkmtGRFPbC6JkKG5EL6Sal45nVJhX3XtvKdpiIIiQf3_uAmqus5F1yiFh8MJALxvQjhNgdg9crWlyhzrUmhuLzugqRIv9dLg8EQbXbdGaAba7yTzVimU5Apg/s1600/me+and+john+chap.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0waFnPOeJtP0IPcNiQpNUkmtGRFPbC6JkKG5EL6Sal45nVJhX3XtvKdpiIIiQf3_uAmqus5F1yiFh8MJALxvQjhNgdg9crWlyhzrUmhuLzugqRIv9dLg8EQbXbdGaAba7yTzVimU5Apg/s320/me+and+john+chap.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461274308164238418" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Uncle John and I grabbing some lunch at the lakeside.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-O_2Zjv76M6aCjs9XcIHQMyfogN9PCj9l3r_euFiblivkaREFNYBfd_kQcHaA5uaYfT4UwEdrbyhDK3dvS-C0r0UVZAo3a_Vgaxw-Uv7jZISM0F4roPoGl0nuqcFQggTAUq0rS5GhXY/s1600/me+and+john+chap2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-O_2Zjv76M6aCjs9XcIHQMyfogN9PCj9l3r_euFiblivkaREFNYBfd_kQcHaA5uaYfT4UwEdrbyhDK3dvS-C0r0UVZAo3a_Vgaxw-Uv7jZISM0F4roPoGl0nuqcFQggTAUq0rS5GhXY/s320/me+and+john+chap2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461274313264062802" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Uncle John and I on a somewhat cloudier day.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48CziymXPZ-M6mKbbq3YHCbCCLB-CB2-ik7ZOOIeLkkB3z9x51SPC-hyHa6hrmADCJiydhSJOcHnEoFVICu2nse1NUr1MZhw0Xza9faSPT5ClwebK3C-yHxJ_KC4rMN5rRn-Jdrtg6dM/s1600/me+and+chap.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48CziymXPZ-M6mKbbq3YHCbCCLB-CB2-ik7ZOOIeLkkB3z9x51SPC-hyHa6hrmADCJiydhSJOcHnEoFVICu2nse1NUr1MZhw0Xza9faSPT5ClwebK3C-yHxJ_KC4rMN5rRn-Jdrtg6dM/s320/me+and+chap.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461274319505282482" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">At the edge of a jetty. See how it almost looks like<br />Santa Barbara coastline in the background...almost?<br /></div><br />Oh wow. A year has gone by so fast. I can't believe that it was last September 8th, 2009, that I hopped on a plane to Mexico not having the least idea of what to expect or what lay in store for me. Furthermore, I'm aware that I haven't posted since March, and a lot has transpired since then, so I'll try to fill you in a little bit.<br /><br />I would definitely consider myself more Mexican by now. Yes, I have the advantage of it being in my blood, but also, I now have the cultural experiences and lifestyle to accompany it. For one, as I'm sitting here typing away, I'm listening to Mexican music and thoroughly enjoying it. Now before you get too excited thinking I'm listening to a cacophony of trumpets, accordions, classical guitars, crashing cymbals, and operatic vocalists—I'm not. I've been introduced to really good contemporary music that breaks with the aforementioned tradition.<br /><br />Considering myself more Mexican would also have to be things like<br />coming to expect tortillas at almost every meal,<br />generally understanding people and being understood in (Spanish) conversations,<br />exceeding the passenger limit of almost every vehicle I enter,<br />finally liking micheladas (beer with mixed with lime, salt, and other flavorings served on ice),<br />expecting lime and chile to accompany just about every meal,<br />having danced "banda" and liked it somewhat,<br />watching soccer games and actually caring about the outcome,<br />buying reading material in Spanish,<br />and having come to know dozens and dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins.<br /><br />I haven't done as much traveling as I would have liked, but I have gotten around a little bit. The pictures at the top of the entry are of Lake Chapala—Mexico’s biggest lake. It's only an hour’s drive from my town of Zapotlanejo. It apparently used to be a lot bigger, and stretch to near where the Guadalajara airport is, but it has shrunk a lot and been polluted; but remains beautiful. Earlier this year, an uncle (on my mom’s side) had been living at a town along the lakeside, and I took advantage of his presence and got out of Zapo on weekends to spend some time near a big body of water. I don’t know what it is, but there’s just something about being near an entity that’s so much bigger than yourself, and of being reminded how small we are. It may not be the ocean, but there’s just something about being in the presence of a large body of water that’s calming and reassuring for me. After having spent essentially my whole life in Santa Barbara, on the coast, I feel at home near and around water. It’s a part of me—I need it, and I miss it.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWzSt2O7T5Kyp-2u7o4C32CpqQBeE5Y8jRCfLLtO0xzZl9lo9S2ssHYM-blKn9yOc7SsD_sxXhW_BlAYnsjb5Vi67kpk5ezv617ftuWvc_XPQfXfEOF3qAqowHygMElrMs-O8JN1zx14/s1600/jackandjames1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWzSt2O7T5Kyp-2u7o4C32CpqQBeE5Y8jRCfLLtO0xzZl9lo9S2ssHYM-blKn9yOc7SsD_sxXhW_BlAYnsjb5Vi67kpk5ezv617ftuWvc_XPQfXfEOF3qAqowHygMElrMs-O8JN1zx14/s320/jackandjames1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515353593279157154" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Jack & James on the cover of Voces.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFOD-vFYSdD1QI30RI2JhXNMFAib91woT-K5bBj7K_u0sgej0BFoRpUMgctZ-P1apV5Ogskc44awwd4bRNRKluHkoh7xAzF2e6cM-PoiS3-KBfNd7hlW59GWWuOopL5vZWxgsh6kpgmc/s1600/JackAndJames.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFOD-vFYSdD1QI30RI2JhXNMFAib91woT-K5bBj7K_u0sgej0BFoRpUMgctZ-P1apV5Ogskc44awwd4bRNRKluHkoh7xAzF2e6cM-PoiS3-KBfNd7hlW59GWWuOopL5vZWxgsh6kpgmc/s320/JackAndJames.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515353602379815730" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Inside photo from the mag.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">A couple friends and I formed "Jack & James" earlier this year as well 'cause we all wanted to get together and play some rock. We have a number of covers that we play, as well as our own material—some songs in English, some in Spanish. We've played around Zapotlanejo quite a bit, and are starting to look for other bars and places to play. (In the course of writing this blog entry the singer called me and told me we are playing at a big, whole-town-attending-event tomorrow. Um, ok.) In other news, we'll be releasing a demo shorty. It's been fun and who knows where it'll go--but I'll be keeping you posted!<br /><br />My classes have been going well. I'm still working at the same English school—in October I'll complete a year of working there! They're looking to make me a part-time supervisor next month also; and, with more money, unfortunately, comes more responsibility. As regards to teaching, I now feel like I have a good command of most of the subjects I give, whereas before I had more doubts. I still of much to learn about grammar and language, so as I continue to teach I also continue to learn. I also feel (and can observe) that I've started giving the classes better—I've seen the students make progress and it's been rewarding.<br /><br />A year is a lot longer than some people imagined I'd be (survive) here. I'm not sure what I imagined...I didn't and still don't have any time frame for when or where the next step will be. But, right now, I'm enjoying it, and that's all that any of us can do—enjoy to the fullest where we are and the people that are in our lives right now, because before we know it, they or us move away, or someone passes away, and things will never be the same as they once were. All we can enjoy is right now—the people that we're with and what it is we're doing. At least, that's how I see it.<br /></div></div>TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-41320626603627576662010-03-30T07:48:00.004+02:002010-03-30T08:08:16.474+02:00United Languages: A Journey of Teaching and Learning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_TYd9Cw9kyMQgTn02VFMreNnMBzEae16QBnIut8JLG7RKrSYxj_hZuS1WbbdFfoUThkedoNrANWw3iPU7I5hvtbHDQzFxQMqplKEB7_06grvExbaPBOqW6pKJROY0KuLh-ro7y8aDjs/s1600/School.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 447px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_TYd9Cw9kyMQgTn02VFMreNnMBzEae16QBnIut8JLG7RKrSYxj_hZuS1WbbdFfoUThkedoNrANWw3iPU7I5hvtbHDQzFxQMqplKEB7_06grvExbaPBOqW6pKJROY0KuLh-ro7y8aDjs/s320/School.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454300693868549474" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A picture of the front of United Languages. It is a house-converted-into-a-school, and there is a portable whiteboard on the lawn, probably from the class I just taught (sometimes we run out of space inside). More pictures of the school coming soon.</span><br /></div><br />Ok. So, one of the major impediments to having enough time to write about life down here is due to my job. Since my last post, I’ve obtained a full-time teaching position at the private English school I work at.<br /><br />It’s a private school, and it’s almost run more like a business in the sense of the structure of classes and a schedule. It’s not like a public school with lunch time, recess, and after-school programs. The school is set up so that students can reserve class or time in the computer lab in one-hour slots. The school is open in the morning from 7-11a.m., and re-opens in the afternoons, from 3-9p.m. Furthermore, it’s not like I’m working with the same group of students day-in and day-out. There are four levels of instruction (beginning, intermediate, intermediate-plus, and advanced); and so one day at one hour I might be teaching a group of students of a certain level, and the next day, a different group (and thus level) at the same hour.<br /><br />All that to say, is that it can make the learning process a bit difficult because of the lack of continuity—i.e. not having the same students day-in and day-out, and progressing through the curriculum as a unit.<br /><br />The student age can range from 8 years old to forty-something, with the average age-range being students in high school or a university. About half the students are required by their parents to come, and as a result, lack motivation to learn and apply themselves in class. The other half of the students more or less give a concerted effort to learning. But, having a mix of these students in just about every class can make the teaching aspect a little difficult—finding a interesting way to engage all students in the class, and have them learn something as well. But, this is the job of the teacher; and, on a personal note, I feel that overall, there has been more success than not.<br /><br />I’m endeavoring to reach a level where I present the learning material in a plain, easily understandable yet engaging manner; to the point that I know if a student does not understand something, the fault won’t lie with me or with my instruction. I can’t say I feel this way presently, but it is my goal. (If we don’t have goals, we don’t have anything to work toward, right?) Furthermore, I know that this is not something I can learn overnight, but after much time, and many trials and errors. Some might say that such a teaching ability can never be completely obtained, and that a good teacher can ALWAYS be taught something new. I definitely agree.<br /><br />This past Saturday, March 27th, was United Languages' first graduation ceremony that I’ve been a part of—they are held once every six months. So, it was rewarding to see these students pass on from the school after completing all of their courses; but also, to see that they have learned something, and that I might have been a part of that.<br /><br />I’m sharing all these details with you about the school because it is a large part of my life down here, and it is what I came down here to do. I work six days and a <span style="font-style: italic;">minimum</span> of 48 hours a week, and with such a busy week, my time to do other activities (e.g. writing) has been reduced.<br /><br />As in this entry, the following entries will probably contain more day-to-day comings-and-goings—to try and better paint a picture of how a place and a people go about life as compared to what I was used to. Also, I really want to get more pictures up here…so you can see part of what I see!<br /><br />I miss you all, and I hope all is well for you. Next post coming soon.TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-19218099150060304212010-03-18T06:30:00.002+01:002010-03-18T06:37:04.651+01:00Pathetic...Yeah, it has been a really long time since I posted. But don't fret. I'm staying up late tonight and getting less sleep for those of you who find my words amusing enough to keep coming back. (In other words, I'm going to work on the next blog entry). Pictures are on the way: of the school I work at, of the town, of my house, of funny things, etc. Ramblings including musings, happenings, comings-and-goings, adventures and more are all on their way as well.<br /><br />It's just that stuff (things to write about) keeps piling up, and the feeling of starting to work on an entry is equivalent to feeling like I have to summit a mountain. But--little by little.<br /><br />Something will be up in a few days. Bare with me people. Much love.TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-63676722659328509512010-02-07T20:56:00.008+01:002010-02-08T19:56:23.201+01:00January Part II: The Passing of the TorchOk, ok, so I said it would be “about a week or so” before I got my next post up. I lied. But at least it wasn’t as bad as before. So…I guess we can assume my lies are getting more accurate? (Oh yeah, today marks 5 months I've been living here.)<br /><br />One of the holidays of the month of January (for all I know, being as uninformed about things as I am, it could have been the only one) is <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Dia de los Tres Reyes</span>—Day of the Three Kings. It is the last of the “winter holidays,” and is held on the 6th of January each year—a celebration of the three kings/wise men encountering the baby Jesus. Gifts are sometimes exchanged, but the most prominent aspects of the holiday I noticed were the parties and the bread. “Bread?!?” you say? Let me explain.<br /><br />The night of the 5th is when some people begin celebrating the holiday, with a grand dinner fiesta with family and friends. The <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Rosca de Reyes</span> (Wreath of Kings) is a large, rectangular-shaped loaf of sweetbread; it is almost shaped like a frame. In other places it is more circular or oval. There are candied strips of lime, strawberry, and orange (three colors), along with a dusting of sugar on the crust. Here’s the surprise: inside the loaf there are three (sometimes up to five or more) little plastic infants, and if you encounter—hopefully not with your teeth, as did my dad—a little infant in the slice of <span style="font-style: italic;">Rosca</span> you are served, you are supposed to do one of the following. 1) Buy or make tamales to be had a fiesta you are supposed to host on the 2nd of February, or 2) NOT have to buy the tamales that are to be had a fiesta on the 2nd of February. Numbers 1 and 2 are in conflict because I never seemed to get the same story out of any two people…<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrPN5FDmiLRqlXVJdHFQmXLjglXz9LvAHjNWOM_RIZyjXD_ES_feF5wnIgeMKM-Uy6q4JjZ0KOYbTdB-IJPulGzTrmd8IclpsRqQqHALhHikK08xZwecSFdxSF5HOvlLSces7rTPfG_0/s1600-h/rosca.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrPN5FDmiLRqlXVJdHFQmXLjglXz9LvAHjNWOM_RIZyjXD_ES_feF5wnIgeMKM-Uy6q4JjZ0KOYbTdB-IJPulGzTrmd8IclpsRqQqHALhHikK08xZwecSFdxSF5HOvlLSces7rTPfG_0/s200/rosca.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435933805459573762" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Delicious <span style="font-style: italic;">Rosca de Reyes</span><br /></div><br />But, the day was bittersweet (not to be punny), because my last grandparent, mother of my dad, passed away on <span style="font-style: italic;">Dia de los Reyes</span>. This immediately precipitated the coming of much family and friends into Zapotlanejo to pay their respects and attend the ceremonies. This wave of family came just after the last family visitors from the winter holidays were leaving—and so made 4 straight weeks of family time. Two days after my grandmother passed, all of my family who needed to travel here were already here, away from their jobs and other obligations, to attend and participate in the ceremonies.<br /><br />Not just family came to Zapotlanejo to visit, but also a good amount of friends of the family. News of this kind spreads fast here. But what struck me was how united all of the family and friends were—the amount of solidarity that exists in a community like this, to be there for one another in a time of need or loss. The great amount of support was sincere and valued by myself and my family.<br /><br />There were some cultural aspects worth noting as well. Two days after she passed and was flown in to Zapotlanejo, an all-night vigil of prayer <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">velorio</span> was held, in accordance with Catholic and Mexican cultural tradition (an open-casket was also an inseparable part of all the proceedings). The following day was the funeral, and as the coffin was slowly driven through the narrow, winding streets of this town, the crowd of attendees walked behind, singing, praying, talking, or keeping silent. We made our way all the way to the cemetery like this; I noticed that this procession created quite a bit of traffic, but as soon as the drivers caught sight of what was happening, they were patient, understanding, and respectful. At the cemetery, one of my uncles and his mariachi band played my grandmother’s favorite songs, as we talked, sang, wept, and reflected.<br /><br />After the burial, a <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">novenario</span> followed for 9 straight days: every day from 8-8:30p.m., people (mostly family) would gather and pray the rosary. It is often viewed as assisting the deceased in their transition to the next life, and is often a very cathartic experience for the mourners. After, the attendees drank coffee and cinnamon tea while talking and reminiscing. As this nightly <span style="font-style: italic;">novenario</span> was held partly in the house and partly just outside of it, I observed that passersby often took off their hats or crossed themselves as they passed out of respect, even if they didn’t know who the <span style="font-style: italic;">novenario</span> was for.<br /><br />As the intensity of seeing your forebear lowered into the earth sinks in, one is forced to confront the reality of death: that it will one day come to us all. And while that is a sad and sobering thought, it immediately gives us appreciation for the here and now: to be living and alive, and grateful of this beautiful glimpse of existence we are given. All this caused me acknowledge the fact that with the passing of my grandmother, so passes a mother a many. She was 100 years old, had given birth to 14 children, had been shot in the leg (in her house) during the Cristero War (<a style="color: rgb(204, 153, 51);" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cristero_War">click here for war history</a>), and had survived long enough to earn the title of great-great-grandmother. I was her youngest grandson. So, now the torch is passed to my aunts and uncles—they now become the end of the line, the oldest living torchbearers; they become the grandmothers and great-grandfathers and so forth.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYEsj4o-Kn5ONwdNTMR6efhxuZpvAMq4uarnDsVjaswkzjiJ4wy34OkKzxn7BxHSktMCbhISmDsEo6l-eS9djeSSdEr2dX6ZRNru3AUYS_zoObAyNneYvvO2AVEtTSKdAQcJ8i4FavkQE/s1600-h/Mama+Theresa2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYEsj4o-Kn5ONwdNTMR6efhxuZpvAMq4uarnDsVjaswkzjiJ4wy34OkKzxn7BxHSktMCbhISmDsEo6l-eS9djeSSdEr2dX6ZRNru3AUYS_zoObAyNneYvvO2AVEtTSKdAQcJ8i4FavkQE/s320/Mama+Theresa2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435942735250721234" border="0" /></a>Teresa Davalos Arana viuda de Villavicencio, 7/23/1909 - 1/6/2010<br /></div><br />So we look to our own lives, acknowledging the inevitable end on this planet that will come to us all, while at the same time realizing that the precious opportunity of this moment is to be enjoyed to its fullest. We raise our torches and continue our lineages and our lives—whether we acknowledge it or not—and lay the stones for those coming behind us to walk on.TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-10686301762617894852010-01-25T04:27:00.001+01:002010-01-25T04:29:25.313+01:00January: Part I--Feliz Ano Nuevo!The beginning of January marks four months now that I have been living here! Oh yeah, Happy New Year. But, before I get ahead of myself—December ended with a constant flow of celebrations and holiday cheer.<br /><br />“Posadas” are any parties held during the month of December, in anticipation of Christmas. What makes any dinner gathering a “posada” are a few crucial elements: tamales, pozole (soup with meat and corn), alcohol, and singing. Singing you ask? Yes, well the tradition is to re-enact Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging the night before the birth of Jesus, and they do this by song. The party splits up into two halves and creates a physical distance between the two groups, either by going outside the front door, or on the street, or even a slightly lower part of the house or patio. The “outsider” group represents Joseph and Mary, and the “insider” group represents the inn or residents of the barn they are trying to stay at. The two sides sing to each other, taking turns singing their scripted lines, and then finally the outsiders are let in and the whole party reunites and sings together…And then continues eating and drinking together.<br /><br />About now you’re wondering when I’m going to make a funny comment or something, in desperate attempts of keeping your attention. Well, as of yet, I’ve got nothing, so just keep reading.<br /><br />A lot of family from the States flew in for the end-of-the-year festivities, and so it was good getting to see them, especially those that I haven’t seen in a long time. Some of them I didn’t even remember too well but it was good seeing them again, and reestablishing a relationship. However, I find I am constantly asking myself who is or isn’t family, if so, what that makes them to me, and how it is exactly we are connected. For example, with all the posadas and everything, on one instance I met the brother, wife, and kids of the spouse of my first cousin of one of my aunts. For all I know there might exist a title for that connection, but I sure don’t know it. Another time I met the youngest nephew (and his family) of one of my aunts, but on her husband’s side, and tried to figure out if that makes him anything to me. It is quite impressive how they keep track of relationships here, from the nucleus of one’s family—mom, dad, brothers and sisters—further out to spouses, children, brothers-and-sisters-in-law, grandparents, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, second cousins, and then again the spouses and children of these ever-expanding relationship networks. So you don’t date or marry a single person down here, but rather, their family network.<br /><br />All that said, all the way from Labor Day back in September, all of the “American” holidays beginning with labor day have been “first-time” holidays outside of the country, and it has been a different experience for me, as I have mentioned before. I suppose the main “experience” of it is this: whereas in one country, everything shuts-down for a given special day (e.g. holiday), but the day passes like any other in a different country, without the slightest indication that it is a holiday for millions of others. I guess it has just been a lesson in cultural relativity, and emphasis of cultural traditions, because hey, after all, I am living in a different culture than the one I grew-up in.<br /><br />Lastly, here are some “how-you-know-you-are-in-Mexico” moments:<br /><br />-you need to drive at all speed bumps at a severe angle, otherwise the car will scrape not because it has been lowered or “tricked-out,” but because it has too many people in it.<br /><br />-you have ceased to be surprised by scooters or motorcycles (made for 2 people, maybe) going by that are carrying 4 or 5 people—without helmets. Example: recent quote from a friend (translated), “Look at this guy—he’s leaving with the entire preschool on his scooter!”<br /><br />-you have ceased to be awakened by the roosters next door which begin cock-a-doodle-dooing at 4a.m.<br /><br />-everyone has (pay-as-you-go) cell phones down here, but no one ever has any “minutes” left on their balance, so they just wait around for each other to call.<br /><br />-when you sleep, your dreams take place in Mexico. And are in Spanish.<br /><br />I will probably have another post up on here in about a week or so (I’m telling the truth this time, I swear!); the material’s already written, I just don’t want to bombard you with too much writing in one entry. Hope all your holidays passed well, and we’ll talk soon.TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-18563726055127817102009-12-18T17:14:00.010+01:002009-12-29T20:53:14.947+01:00A Way of LifeYes, I know I don’t exactly post on this thing often, but in my defense, it was only my intention to have 1-2 posts a month, depending on time and material to write about. With that said, in this post there are some long-overdue photos from my time here.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLIYSnmGh5iZS1Sb_9oiHq8DXIMLT3tSsnGbtYMek_N7gq7px8BPZgTC87xtz9cNq5FzQMxC6qxXYcrSn0qVkkN5tSuJms7R9sZ5JwV3sBOCpYR9efND4vTLW4ITPU1Jj9JxZu5iOIZlU/s1600-h/CIMG6340.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLIYSnmGh5iZS1Sb_9oiHq8DXIMLT3tSsnGbtYMek_N7gq7px8BPZgTC87xtz9cNq5FzQMxC6qxXYcrSn0qVkkN5tSuJms7R9sZ5JwV3sBOCpYR9efND4vTLW4ITPU1Jj9JxZu5iOIZlU/s400/CIMG6340.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416618003774770994" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Dia De Los Muertos with a katrina in the background. All on the ground are the stamen and pistils of thousands of flowers.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRtmpcUJJ_P2gjrk2vHYWNlpP3K1uAVMwuhV0l1lz7RMcTfGRPViVjQtuZZScOk5OgTg4vLv322DmiFpJr9urYzDakatRc-Za6RjePihrqWT4DtoA9rknDWP5cjh7uLthHoh2ohSbKk4/s1600-h/CIMG6338.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRtmpcUJJ_P2gjrk2vHYWNlpP3K1uAVMwuhV0l1lz7RMcTfGRPViVjQtuZZScOk5OgTg4vLv322DmiFpJr9urYzDakatRc-Za6RjePihrqWT4DtoA9rknDWP5cjh7uLthHoh2ohSbKk4/s400/CIMG6338.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416618013072917970" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Almost the same shot, a little blurry, but I included it because you can better see what's going on in the background.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjGSf5292m8Y1rducmQJ0NiUPuKZQ7dIfuwHNqCF162XBC0nbnCd9C0Uwrb8jF0n7p0E8jY_1sCGGU00Bp3ShhVOnxgxRBw5vG524b0XkY-P2H_KGmzqSqZN5bdfgpteqzUFaVqkoirI/s1600-h/CIMG6334.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjGSf5292m8Y1rducmQJ0NiUPuKZQ7dIfuwHNqCF162XBC0nbnCd9C0Uwrb8jF0n7p0E8jY_1sCGGU00Bp3ShhVOnxgxRBw5vG524b0XkY-P2H_KGmzqSqZN5bdfgpteqzUFaVqkoirI/s400/CIMG6334.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416618020684020498" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">More katrinas.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXnWWoePQmWuMWhZvTZZ4lt4vu6sdOlFWn6wWdCuNdL5kyK_lQZhzzsTedGhiKqwU0obcvaCO_Sys9IJgO5XXsZ4HcwVdYesB-OA9_luKxW4kwRp1BFoLbo9Kv8b4iHoeGPKxDNVvD8BI/s1600-h/CIMG6417.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXnWWoePQmWuMWhZvTZZ4lt4vu6sdOlFWn6wWdCuNdL5kyK_lQZhzzsTedGhiKqwU0obcvaCO_Sys9IJgO5XXsZ4HcwVdYesB-OA9_luKxW4kwRp1BFoLbo9Kv8b4iHoeGPKxDNVvD8BI/s400/CIMG6417.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416618032722877714" border="0" /></a><br />Monkeying around with some friends on the "biggest" (i.e. widest) tree in the state of Jalisco. I don't think we were supposed to climb it. Mexicans need to go to California if they want to see some big trees.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOYFaBuuiFeTYGyNXF60Lby4L9wpsPSZDypZFq7N62ka9pGBQn0KnMq2Yp1E-QBuIGaP6LsZ1ZkXbW1Qg6LQ9SswYDu2Qd_zjw-kFHrrmXPEx0a9mUCidT-T4CfBJf01nsC0hyphenhyphenjPzwwE/s1600-h/Cristina+y+su+hijo+Samuel+Patty+Lula+Monserrat+Betty+Lupe+Y+Christopher+de+visita+al+cementerio.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOYFaBuuiFeTYGyNXF60Lby4L9wpsPSZDypZFq7N62ka9pGBQn0KnMq2Yp1E-QBuIGaP6LsZ1ZkXbW1Qg6LQ9SswYDu2Qd_zjw-kFHrrmXPEx0a9mUCidT-T4CfBJf01nsC0hyphenhyphenjPzwwE/s400/Cristina+y+su+hijo+Samuel+Patty+Lula+Monserrat+Betty+Lupe+Y+Christopher+de+visita+al+cementerio.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416618034838083330" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">With some relatives. The two nuns hadn't been back to Mexico (from Europe) for twenty years.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nbiZLI8JVQp7cATzWeBaVYUayOMgIUv_omAKRHE77QFRGtH9SHRTMrbS_FTPIV_ajf3u9yNT0EpbYVM3fPWL0yIvXAiYXG4-vyN113taq0LHrUsEev6yfWieisGGhjekRn4HlSfih5s/s1600-h/Los+Primos,+Leo+Pablo+Chris+Fernando+Ramon+Gerardo+Agustin+Arturo+Luis+Joseluis+Berna+Lula+Bety+Octavio+y+Felix.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nbiZLI8JVQp7cATzWeBaVYUayOMgIUv_omAKRHE77QFRGtH9SHRTMrbS_FTPIV_ajf3u9yNT0EpbYVM3fPWL0yIvXAiYXG4-vyN113taq0LHrUsEev6yfWieisGGhjekRn4HlSfih5s/s400/Los+Primos,+Leo+Pablo+Chris+Fernando+Ramon+Gerardo+Agustin+Arturo+Luis+Joseluis+Berna+Lula+Bety+Octavio+y+Felix.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416622623488084578" border="0" /></a><br />The Primos Hermanos--"first cousins." Actually this is only a handful of the guys. There are around 60 total, including women. (I'm back row, 3rd from left)<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUoz_DrNnTZbGwutVF27ifmBdjgOFFYtcBEKjcUg9YuU1C3l5-TPN8dGkAc8O6Me_NdOV5w4f0Zd40c9GZ3CqD67Xk6PU3RU9TiqgGPHqCtVSk9Aio4MtbkVnbhne5Kv9dPnudNPNK3yM/s1600-h/CIMG6431.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUoz_DrNnTZbGwutVF27ifmBdjgOFFYtcBEKjcUg9YuU1C3l5-TPN8dGkAc8O6Me_NdOV5w4f0Zd40c9GZ3CqD67Xk6PU3RU9TiqgGPHqCtVSk9Aio4MtbkVnbhne5Kv9dPnudNPNK3yM/s400/CIMG6431.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416622631549937010" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">A pool hall here in Zapotlanejo we went to for my birthday. In this picture are my coworkers from the school.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOUz8rsZb-LdaOp-1YS1QFRMf9EtSvVbH2fwR_GuaSDttdyz3m23r93eO5JH_sI53MV3OnvIEgWrn8qAkmnHUyIBfoueJehK_agXXuoILi4kSQ-WM8c9JwffY-Gewx9Dq13rnnR70jYQ/s1600-h/CIMG6442.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOUz8rsZb-LdaOp-1YS1QFRMf9EtSvVbH2fwR_GuaSDttdyz3m23r93eO5JH_sI53MV3OnvIEgWrn8qAkmnHUyIBfoueJehK_agXXuoILi4kSQ-WM8c9JwffY-Gewx9Dq13rnnR70jYQ/s400/CIMG6442.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416622643903144306" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Here are a couple hands making sure I participate in the birthday tradition of smushing one's face into the birthday cake. You can see that I'm smiling.<br /></div><br />My 24th birthday passed here in Mexico—yet another first time experience: a birthday outside of the country. And whaddayaknow, I didn’t have any friends out of town on holiday for Thanksgiving (my b-day is always that week). Actually I was quite surprised how the day turned out. My coworkers at the school all paused from their schedules to eat lunch and birthday cake with me. And then, in an (to me) unexpected tradition, they all went around in a circle and each said something for me. One of my coworkers told me that at a job, your coworkers are your family, and I am now part of a new family, and if there is anything I need, all I need do is ask. For having only worked there for 2 and a half months, this was quite surprising and humbling—the openness and welcoming familial nature of relationships here.<br /><br />An example to illustrate this was that I was on an errand and I needed the translating abilities of a friend of mine, and without a second thought he came along. I was under the impression that my errand would take no longer than 5 minutes, and I told him so; but it turned into an 1 ½ endeavor—taking us all over town—before it was finished. I asked if I could buy my friend lunch or something for helping me out and he politely declined. I said I really appreciated it and he said that’s all that mattered.<br /><br />This same kind of openness and willingness to help out a friend or family member is something that I’m still unused to as of yet. For the most part, in the States, I’m used to people hesitating, or there are at least strings attached to favors. Here, if you’re friend or family, and there is something needed, those around you offer themselves or their services up without a second thought. Of course, the idea is that you won’t take advantage of them. If you do, their assistance is summarily cut off. So I suppose there would be very loose strings attached to favors and such here—the understanding is that everyone is the same way, and has the same attitude toward it. All this to say, is this generosity and willingness to give is a way of life down here, a kind of circle of giving, and is open to you even if you haven’t been here long.<br /><br />I almost abstained from preparing a turkey hotdog for myself on Thanksgiving as a nod to the millions of perished Native Americans and their nonexistent descendants unable to do so. ("Oh here he goes again with the Native Americans...). But there was nothing else to eat in the fridge, so I ate it. So passed Thanksgiving here—without so much as a blink from my countrymen. It was a kind of realization—that the experience of a holiday/holiday weekend for an entire nation (Thanksgiving) is essentially nonexistent as soon as you cross the imaginary lines in the dirt that separate countries. “Black Friday?” Nonexistent. I know it may seem obvious that the traditions of one nation aren’t celebrated in a different country…but like I’ve said before, it was a new <span style="font-style: italic;">experience</span>.<br /><br />But that’s what this blog is about—my new experiences of a land and a place that is very different than where I come from.<br /><br />I hope all of your past and upcoming holiday celebrations were and are filled with family and merriment! I’ll see you in the New Year with the scoop on what things were like down here!TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-80187979246491851632009-11-20T18:09:00.003+01:002009-11-20T18:15:00.825+01:00El Nino Que Esta Aprendiendo (The Learning Boy)So, as one might imagine, there’s been many a first time for things since I’ve been here:<br /><br />-my first time driving a quatrimoto (an ATV or 4-wheeler)<br />-my first time to a Latin American indigenous culture site<br />-my first time gambling in Mexico<br />-my first time ice-skating in at least 15 years, and the second time I’ve ever done it<br />-my first time washing my laundry by hand—jeans are the worst<br />-my first time driving a motorcycle on my own. (I think I’m addicted now)<br />-my first time kissing a beautiful woman in Mexico. (I think I'm addicted now)<br />-my first time experiencing Dia de los Muertos in Mexico<br /><br />Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is truly a beautiful celebration in Mexico. I’d seen pictures of the event and read about it previously, but it is a completely different <span style="font-style: italic;">experience</span> once you’re in Mexico. It harkens back to a pre-Columbian tradition of the native peoples, that has changed and adapted with religion, culture, and other forces that mold traditions as they do. There are so many colors present in the flowers and decorations of the art and figurines, and it is such a compelling mixture of images of death and beauty, art, and culture, that I was very much taken aback by it all.<br /><br />In a circular formation, there were about 6 or 7 skeletons arranged in front of the ancient church, each with different garments and accessories. They were cartoon-ish type skeleton figurines draped in robes of purple, black, white, red, and yellow, and are called “Katrinas.” These Katrinas weren’t the horror-movie type either, but rather, smiling cartoon-like depictions, enjoying themselves on their holiday. Surrounding all of this were flowers and the pistils and stamens of flowers for coloring—weaving around in paths and forming artistic patterns of their own. (I regret not having pictures of any this for you…I’ll try and get pictures of some things up on here soon!)<br /><br />As I stood there at night, taking in all of the culture, history, and reality behind the event, I stumbled across this opinion: any event which is a celebration of human life is a beautiful tradition. Now, let me explain. In front of the church, on the stairs leading up to the building, were pictures of deceased people, surrounded by food, sweets, and flowers, all blending into create the holiday’s esthetic. As I looked at the faces of these dead, I was reminded how short life is, and how incredibly fortunate enough we are to be things which recognize their own existence, the breaths they take, and thoughts they have. And in a glimpse, the entire life of a person is swallowed by Time, which envelops everything that surrounds us, and surpasses it all. For we only have but a short little window of existence to acknowledge and enjoy before its gone, and we’re remembered on days like Dia de los Muertos. So as I took it all in, and thought these thoughts, I said to myself, “this is a beautiful tradition, a celebration of life and a longing for those who we miss who are no longer among us…I’m fortunate to be here.”<br /><br />So, this is an encouragement to all who read this (all 13): if you haven’t yet had the experience of Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, you definitely should have it. Come on down next year and soak in the holiday. You won’t be disappointed.<br /><br />So right now I am in the process or learning one language, and teaching a separate one. First: some signs I know I’m learning another language:<br /><br />1) I’m having increasing difficulty finding the words I want to say in English—only Spanish comes to mind<br />2) example: it took me a while to write that last sentence, and I’m still not sure it’s right.<br />3) People are frequently laughing when I talk not because I said something wrong, but because I said something right. And it was funny!<br />4) People are frequently staring at me with a searching expression, utterly without a clue as to what I’m attempting to communicate.<br />5) I wish there was a Thumbelina-sized translator I could have stuffed in my pocket at all times.<br /><br />Overall, my Spanish is improving bit-by-bit, but I still have a long way to go. I’ve got a couple of dictionaries for both languages, as well as grammar and usage books, but it’s just a matter of time: studying and practice. Hah I get practice every day whether I want to or not, it’s the studying that’s hard to find time for.<br /><br />Teaching a <span style="font-style: italic;">different</span> language has got my gears all mixed up in my brain, but on the whole, I’m learning a lot. My job requires an in-depth knowledge of the English language, not just simply the ability to speak it. For example, I’ve had to learn what gerunds, past participles, and infinitive clauses are, and the difference between transitive and intransitive verbs. But ironically I still can’t tell you why you should say “lie” instead of “lay” or vice versa. Back to the books…<br /><br />I’ll try and get some pictures up on here soon…I gotta prove to you that I’m actually down here, ya know? Take care all! Until next time…TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-80108298411498555992009-11-06T17:35:00.004+01:002009-11-06T17:41:40.087+01:00Realizing MexicoHaha so I said I’d try and get this post up by “the end of the week,” almost a month ago! Well…lots has been going on and let me try to fill ya in…<br /><br />Guachimontones. An ancient, pre-Columbian site about a half hour West of Guadalajara. It has some of the world’s only round pyramids—most have a square-base shape like the Egyptians, Sumerians, Mayans, etc. Here, they are rounded, with a stepped-formation to the top. There actually isn’t a name for the people that lived there, because the whole site is such a recent discovery (10 years ago) that not much is known about them. Unfortunately, when the highway was built some years back, it was reported that there were “stepped” formations in the ground, but it was paved over due to haste and a lack of knowledge of the site. So, another of the pyramids is probably under the highway, not to be recovered. Anyhow, it was a beautiful site, and a great time, and since I didn’t take any pictures, you can check it out on wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guachimontones) or just do a google image search.<br /><br />Family is central down here. And I knew that before coming down here, but I hadn’t <span style="font-style: italic;">experienced</span> that, you know? It’s almost as if my aunts and uncles are surrogate parents, my first cousins as big brothers and sisters, and my “nieces and nephews” (2nd cousins) are like the little brothers and sisters I never had. Really. It’s very different, but very homey. And I never would have anticipated it would change me like I feel it has. My family really has “grown” down here, and I feel as though I’ve grown in proportion to it—each new brother and sister, each new parent, each new niece/nephew has become a part of who I am.<br /><br />The fiestas here. The days of last month are referred to as “las fiestas de Octubre.” (I’m not going to translate that…because…all you do is switch the “r” and “e” in Octubre.) There are different holidays for different towns, different saints that are celebrated, combined with regional and national celebrations during October. Monday the 16th was Columbus Day, and man do they celebrate the heck out of the day. The day that marked the beginning of the genocide of native peoples on two continents, their subsequent rape, exploitation of their land, death by foreign disease, and enslavement. I asked my Tia where are the Native Americans to “celebrate” this day. She pointed to the small group of Indians on the TV, and I responded by joking the government paid them off. Columbus was a product of his times, in part: the age of imperialism. He was following the model of his predecessors in other parts of the world: enslave and exploit the locals. Anyway, this where you tune out because the “college boy” is going on a rant borrowed from authors and professors, so I’ll stop myself.<br /><br />Back to the fiestas. Here in Zapotlanejo, the whole town turns out for them. The other week was 9 straight days of fiestas, where a bunch of taco and snack stands were out, “Banda” bands walking around playing for whoever pays them, and fireworks. All this takes place mostly at night, centered around “the plaza” here: the open space downtown, with a little gazebo where everyone congregates. I’ve already started to see people I know from school or mutual friends when I go to the plaza at night—it’s a fairly small town. All in all, it was pretty fun. Except for the fireworks at 5am each morning. That was enough to make me want to walk outside my house with a bat in search of the culprits.<br /><br />What’s also been good is the realization of the world that travel brings. Being a sheltered American not having been to Mexico for 10 years before moving here, I had stereotypes and preconceptions about this place before coming here. I’ll confess: I thought it would be a bigger version of East LA with its whole aesthetic: the cars, the fashion, the language, the culture—but I am glad to say my naïve understanding was utterly proven wrong. Those are just aspects and products of Mexican-<span style="font-style: italic;">American</span> culture. Once I travel I remember/realize that the cultures I’m used seeing, and the view of the world I’m used to having is obsolete, for the reason that it is uninformed.<br /><br />Here, this place is a completely <span style="font-style: italic;">different</span> culture from those in the U.S.—it is a separate country. It is a different Mexican culture than any Mexican culture I was familiar with in the States. And I have loved realizing this; it has been a similar awakening experience as when I lived in Ethiopia. The world is bigger than our preconceived ideas and limited experiences. (Or at least mine.) One reason why I bother talking about any of this at all, is that I’m hoping it’ll inspire some of you to travel, and realize that some assumptions are off-base until those experiences are had for ourselves.<br /><br />Just a warning: I might get a little soap-boxy, or rambling sometimes (one of the meanings behind The Rambling Nomad) about my opinions…but if you know me, then you know that that’s how I get sometimes.<br /><br />I do have much more written, just not “published” yet…so I’ll try and be more prompt about getting that up on here soon! Coming soon: Day of the Dead, Learning a language and teaching a separate one, and a list of "First-Time" Experiences in Mexico!!<br /><br />I’ll wrap up with two quotes I really like right now:<br /><br />“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.” –Mark Twain<br /><br />“Deje el mundo cambiarle y usted puede cambiar el mundo.” (“Let the world change you, and you can change the world.”) –Ernesto GuevarraTheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-13319388877878317302009-10-13T02:11:00.001+02:002009-10-13T02:15:38.467+02:00An Expat in the MakingThe busy sounds of the street in my small town swarmed around me, entering my ears and my eyes. All of us characters in this scene were bathed in the orange-yellow glow of the streetlights. The cobbled road, at some times paved, other times patched, wove around me, toward and away from me all at the once. The swimmers of these avenues blazed by on their 100cc motorpeds, the cars barged through as if no one was there. Somehow they always managed to avoid each other. I saw it—a gasp there, an exhale there—the scene breathed like the entity it is. The late hour didn’t discourage the other figures from playing their roles in this scene, the sidewalks were well traveled and the streets busy. Shops were open—come in, come in!! It was late, and I was tired from a day of work, so after playing my role in the night, I left the stage and headed home.<br /><br />But what is home? Cause it sure feels like this place and these people are becoming my new home. Is “home” just a place that shifts around, depending on our experiences? Is it that <span style="font-style: italic;">people</span> that make the <span style="font-style: italic;">place</span> special? Cause I know of a lot of special people in certain cities in the U.S., but there’s a lot of special people here in Zapotlanejo.<br /><br />I guess you don’t feel like an outsider when you’re home. Or at least, as much. Or maybe you do feel like an outsider because you’re estranged from your ‘home.’ I don’t know. I still feel like an outsider here. The language barrier is the most noticeable aspect of this estrangement…but I really like living here, and with these people. Everyone should try it. Go somewhere new and different and fall in love with the place. Or at least with the local form of alcohol (cause let’s be honest, no matter where they are, humans the world over since time immemorial have discovered ways of creating the stuff).<br /><br />I guess I was ready to go, ready to move, ready to be a part of the world in one of its small corners, in a small way that means something to me.<br /><br />A friend recently asked me if I’ve gotten a different perspective on life yet since I’ve been out of SB. I guess you could say: yes, definitely. Santa Barbara can be a bubble (for those of you Santa Barbarians: I’m saying it <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> be, not that it <span style="font-style: italic;">has</span> to be). And I felt as much while I was still there, but it doesn’t sink into the reality of your life until you leave. I’ve just been reminded how it’s a small town, and how there’s so much more going on out in the world; and while in Santa Barbara for an extended period of time, it’s easy to forget about that. Since being here in Mexico, and starting work at this school, I’ve been all the more reminded of what I’ve wanted to do for so long, and I feel this is the first (big) step in a series that will take me where I’m headed, wherever that is. You gotta jump off and dive-in sometime, and I feel as though I have finally done that. I have know idea where this will ultimately lead me, but I like where it’s going. I know that much. And I know it’ll be a windy road, unpredictable, adventurous, fun, perilous—but that is exactly why it must be taken. I’ve got no other choice. This is my one shot.<br /><br />And, I’m beginning to get the feeling that it will probably be a long time before I return. Yes, OF COURSE I’ll visit and stuff, but I’m talking about <span style="font-style: italic;">moving</span> back. I’ve got the feeling that I’ll come back for grad school. Yes—there, I said it. Grad school. I know I want to go now. But I need more time to figure out things first, and I think that can only happen while I’m “away.” Like I was trying to articulate above, living abroad is just something I’ve got to do right now.<br /><br />I misspelled “pageant” in my last post. That irritates me.<br /><br />I mentioned getting a job at a school…well I have and it’s been going really well. It’s a private language school, and the students I work with range from high-schoolers to working professionals in their 30s & 40s. Class sizes range from 2-7 people at most, so it’s a pretty intimate working environment with with the students. There is also a computer lab which supplements their learning with a surprisingly comprehensive language program. I’m starting off teaching conversational English classes, which are aimed at getting the more advanced students to practice the English they’ve learned, using everyday topics. I only teach a couple hours a day, but I spend my rest of the time at the school working on a manual for the teachers to use to teach the various grammar topics, which I will start teaching in about a week or two. It’s been a bit of a learning process for me, as I’ve had to brush up on and re-learn a lot about grammar and the English language. I really like working with the students, and I get along great with the other teachers. While there are other teachers from the U.S. there, I’m definitely the “whitest” one in the sense that I am the one most recently arrived from the States. As such, they’re in the process of coming up with a nickname for me.<br /><br />I’ve got another entry in the works that I’ll probably post up before the week is finished. It’s about the family, fiestas calling out into the night (every night this month), and the super-ancient pre-Columbian culture site I visited. Until next time!TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-36307284275087155972009-09-28T19:33:00.003+02:002009-09-28T19:37:52.163+02:00Learning to Fly (but I ain't got wings)This coming Tuesday marks three weeks since my arrival! Time flies when you fly in an airplane to a country with lots of flies that fly by in the night in a land of flying time.<br /><br />A few insightful observations I’ve made so far about Mexico:<br /><br />-everyone my age is already married and has kids (or is WELL on their way)<br /><br />-just about everyone speaks Spanish<br /><br />-mosquitoes love nightly servings of O+ (my blood type)<br /><br />-emergency blinkers are flashed instead of the brights<br /><br />-the driver and passengers can be drinking beer in the car while driving without wearing seatbelts<br /><br />-such drivers ignore flashing emergency blinkers<br /><br />-your family will always be there. Always. Whether it’s your boisterous 3-year-old “niece” outside your door at 7:30am, or your aunt and cousins to make you a delicious dinner and then sit around convivially and chat for the next 3 hours, they’ll always be there.<br /><br />-they eat a lot of Mexican food. It’s not just tamale Tuesdays here, or enchilada Mondays, but they actually eat this stuff daily. Three times a day. And it’s really good.<br /><br />-things here generally aren’t made for people that are/are over six feet tall. One of these days I’m gonna lose an eye or wake up on the ground with a concussion.<br /><br />-old ladies in line at the store taking their sweet time will be old ladies in line at the store taking their sweet time, whatever country you’re in. Count those pennies. Er, uh, pesos.<br /><br />For Mexico’s birthday celebrations, everyone actually started fiesta-ing the night before, and counted down until midnight (12:01am of Sep. 16th) and kept the party going. I headed down to the plaza with my cousins and family to watch the festivities having to do with Mexico’s independence: a beauty pagent, and a medieval-genre folk band. The fireworks igniting the night sky was pretty awesome. Right before the final beauty (and last year’s winner) walked the stage, the clouds opened up and down-poured on us. Within less than A minute everyone and everything was soaking wet, and those wanting to keep the party going headed inside, while I stood under a centuries-old church’s awning with my family, trying to keep dry and thinking the rain might lift.<br /><br />It didn’t.<br /><br />So I proceeded to walk back to the house with my cousin to get the car, and got the most soaking wet I’ve ever been, and it couldn’t have been better. Soaked to the skin, in the pouring rain, on Mexico’s Independence Day (it was past midnight by now). Call me Ishma…uh…Mexican.<br /><br />I had my first margarita(s) in Mexico…and man they were delicious. Holy crap it was like an addiction in a glass. And, they were free! It was the opening night of some bar/restaurant, and I went with my cousin, and he is friends with the owner, and so somehow through those connections I didn’t have to pay. I also had buffalo wings which I’m pretty sure permanently removed skin from my lips and tongue they were so spicy. Note to self: downing a margarita attempting to quench the fire in your mouth is not a strategy for (digestive) success.<br /><br />So I know that these two entries have been largely “this is what I did, here is where I went,” etc., but I promise more reflective-type stuff in the future. It’s just that there’s so much that’s happened, and so little space I’m entitled before I bore you out. But maybe I should write like I don’t care about such things. Ooops, that sounded too close to a reflection. Time to sign off.TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2771580253028565499.post-3858868126389962962009-09-18T19:29:00.001+02:002009-09-18T20:05:20.553+02:00Arrived!The Adventures Begin!<br /><br />On the airplane, it hadn’t really sunk in yet. I watched as we soared up out of the smog that is LA, and saw California recede into the distance, and into the past.<br /><br />Within less than 24 hours of being in Mexico, I was already on a bus on my way to a small little paradise, Rincon de Guayabitos, with three cousins I hadn’t seen in at least 10 years. We got to stay for free in a charming little paint-chipping-off-the-walls bungalow because of a distant relative my cousins had. It was a beautiful place, and the beaches were virtually empty, save the strolling peddlers selling anything from fresh barbecued fish and shrimp to inflatable whales. Two small islands lay just a 15-minute boat ride away, where small pieces of white coral washed up onto the sands from clear, salty waters. At night we had us a good ol’-fashioned thunder and lightning storm that lasted till daybreak. The Coronas here cost more than I thought they would.<br /><br />These three cousins I keep mentioning are actually considered to be my nieces here. That’s right. I’m an uncle while my only brother remains single and childless. And not just an ‘uncle’ of a few, but of myriads. There are 62 or so other fellow ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles,’ and if their children are my nieces and nephews…you can do the math. Viva la Mexico, baby!<br /><br />I also found out how desperately I need to be fluent in Spanish. This became immediately apparent to me the second I stepped off the plane and started to walk past the customs official without getting my bags checked. I found out that I didn’t know as much Spanish as I thought I did, and that I remembered more than I thought I would, if that makes sense. Pero voy a estudiar mucho!<br /><br />I live in a room in my aunt’s house in this small rancher-town of about 70,000 people, called Zapotlanejo (it’s about a half-hour east of Guadalajara, in the state of Jalisco). My Tia is a sweet lady with a very giving heart, and always willing to feed me, even after I say I’m full. It’s kind of funny, it’s like “living at home” again. If I’m going somewhere or if I’ll be back late, I have to inform her. It’s just kind of funny to have this again after years of independence.<br /><br />Within a week of being here, I also landed a job as an English teacher!! I’m in training now, but I start the 1st of October! It’s at a private language school right here in Zapotlanejo, so I don’t have to commute or anything. I’m really excited that I get to mis-educate people this quickly!<br /><br />Ok, this is long enough for a first entry—I don’t want to bore-out my audience this early in the game! Stay tuned, and we’ll be in touch. Also, feel free to come down to Mexico some time. The weather is warm, the food is good, and the people are nice. Viva la, baby!TheRamblingNomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05408941489406397280noreply@blogger.com1