The knee creeper

You know when you get that gag reflex when the mustard in the fridge you want to put on your tater tots is really sour and moldy, or you're cleaning the bathroom and a mess of clotted hair and shampoo has been clogging the drain, making you wonder for ages why you've felt like you're taking a shower in a foot of water?

Well, the DF subway was like that for me a couple days before I left, and not a spore of mold was involved. There I was, minding my own business attempting to meet friends in DF's main square to look at murals (when I say DF, it means Districto Federal, which is the same thing as Mexico City). Julie (me), advised by her DF hosts (Manny y Maria!), sits in the car designated for women only for added security in the world's largest city. Creepy Random Dude enters women-only car and sits perpendicular to Julie.

Glances become stolen. Julie notices, but ignores. Stares become stared. Julie - still not 100 percent certain glances/stares are aimed at her - continues feigning ignorance. However, when Creepy Random Dude's hand starts trembling, Julie notices said glance/stare is unapologetically fixed. On her knees. Meaning, my knees.

Now, let's just take a moment here to recognize how incredibly fabulous my knees actually are. I, too, have always admired the way the joint moves with ease and they never get too sore, unlike their cry-baby neighbors to the south, my feet. At the moment, they are tan, and the bones don't stick out too much like other people's knees. I have always enjoyed them, and while it's nice for my knees to get the recognition they deserve, I knew in my heart of hearts Creepy Random Dude was not silently praising my superior cartilage, but entertaining more lascivious thoughts in his middle-aged, upper class creepasaurus mind.

Concern was had that creepy trembling hand might be tempted to touch one or both fabulous knees.

Cue gag reflex.

I sat there thinking of all the words I could muster that were rude in Spanish, but assembling them in a sentence just sounded like a disjointed laundry list of synonyms from my dictionary, including 'mean', 'weird', -'heart with cold' and, of course, 'motherfucker'. Veronica, my college roommate and a Mexico City native, taught me that one. Thanks, GF.

Instead of saying anything, though, me and my knees just got up and changed seats - but with a loud sigh and my best eye roll, which probably doesn't translate anyway.

But the problem didn't stop on the Pink Line. It's knee season in Mexico, and I felt hombres undressing my undressed knees all day. I've heard about this whole machismo leering thing before, and how it's all cultural. But hey, in Oaxaca, I didn't get leered.

And anyway, I would prefer it if the hombres interested in my knees treated me they way I'm used to: ignoring my very existence, avoiding eye contact in favor of socially awkward body language, and throwing me a bone with an occasional, apathetic grunt. Then they may proceed to tell me their theory on why wrestling is not a homo-erotic sport. I mean, it's the American way!

I feel I should clarify my outfit before anyone jumps to blame the leer-ee here. Blue dress, cut just above said heartbreaking knees, rather boxy, frankly, and nothing compared to the low neck/high heel combo so many Mexican ladies favor.

So my solution was to put on my sunglasses (it was not sunny), add my rain jacket (nor was it rainy) and glare back. I channeled Crazy Sandra. I stared down potential knee offenders with a wild, arched brow and furrowed my hair. Big hair always scares people off. I got even more slouchy than I normally am, and held my hand on my belly, thinking creepers don't check out pregnant chicks' knees. But they do! Then, when someone would have the absolute gaul to strike a conversation, I'd tell them I was Israeli. "Habla Hebrew?"

My ode to the 'don't fuck with me' charm of Israelis continues (see posts from Guatemala).

This is also what I told to Leatherface the Organ Harvester, a 7-foot-tall 'basketball player' on the Oaxaca basketball team with very suspicious skin (I later learned Oaxaca does not actually have a basketball team). Leatherface skulked around the city and the salsa clubs, looking, in my opinion, like the type of person involved in the black market organ trade. I always felt him eyeing my spleen. He did not habla Hebrew either, which is an excellent way to end a conversation.

On the epic journey from Mexico City to Quito yesterday, a CSI Miami episode centered on illegal organ harvesting which is just another sign that one must be extra vigilant when protecting one's innards. Which, in my book, includes kneecaps.

Sol Searching

Did I mention Guns drives a motorcycle? Just wanted to throw that out there...

We took a second-class bus through the bends into the Oaxacan mountains one weekend. By we, I mean a couple of other American girls in my class, and their 'intercambio' partners - Mexican students trying to learn English. In sum, there were 8 of us. And that was enough.

To give you an idea of the difference between first and second class bus service in Mexico: the first class bus has TVs, reclining chair backs, assigned seats, and a clean, flush toilet in the back.

The second class bus has none of the above. The second class station, however, did have toilets, but they did not flush. Maids swished the loos out with buckets of water, which I found, frankly, off-putting. More for them than me.

The mountain puebla we visited was gorgeous. The air was clean, the food was yummy, and they served us bowls of hot chocolate with breakfast, lunch, AND dinner. Bowls. Of hot chocolate. I took a picture.

We went on a nature hike and zip-lined through the cacti. We wandered the puebla and discovered ancient women, faces leathery and wise, rolling dough in a smoky, wood-fired panderia (bread shop). Their lungs must be immune, black, or both, because the smoke hugged the building like a chubby fleece blanket, blobbing its way out the one open window. Standing from our cabana above, it looked like the panderia roof was levitating. I wondered if it knew about the human body levitation exhibition I talked about in class the week before (see previous post).

The puebla was peaceful, tranquil, effing freezing at night and very oddly empty. There were a lot of children and grandparents, but I noticed a generation was missing: mine. Then one of the intercambios, Judith, dropped this little revelation on me:

'They're all in the United States. They're the ones working in your fields, not their own. The people Arizona wants to keep out? They are from pueblas like this one.'

Ladies and gentleman, a dot has just been connected.

I don't know who I thought migrant workers came from, but it wasn't sleepy little mountain villages, crisp and verdant where even the donkeys seem to bray in a better mood. And you get bowls. Of hot chocolate. At all meals. If the standard set forth by the 75-year-old woman toiling in the smoky bread house is any indication, its no wonder men and women are willing to break their backs picking the organic strawberries I blend with my non-fat organic yogurt and wild harvested honey from the Eugene farmer´s market to go with my free-trade coffee in self-conscious Portland. And thus begins an entirely new chapter of liberalism in the life and times of Jules.

The nights in Oaxacan mountains are cold, even in August, so we huddled around the fireplace in the cabana. (As an aside, the fire would not start. No, seriously. This after I told the group, rather optimistically, ´Don´t worry! I´m a Girl Scout! I can start a fire underwater!´It wasn´t true. I was neither born to dance salsa, or start underwater fires, so please feel free to call me on it next time I utter either falsehood). To keep warm, our group of 8 did the usual - drink beer, tell ghost stories, play truth of dare... they all spoke in English and we all spoke in Spanish and it became a fabulous mismash of incomplete sentences and modifiers dangling in mid-air. Our compadres were college students, around 20 years old, some older, all Catholic. This made for what I thought was becoming a rather boring game of ´Would You Rather´...

´Would you rather marry a rich man who was cruel, or a poor man to painted your pictures in the sun?´

´Would you rather kiss a pretty girl with braces, or an ugly girl with nice teeth?´

´Would you rather make a fart in school, or walk around with toilet paper on your shoes?´

It felt like I was reading letters to the editor at TigerBeat Magazine. Then, just as it all became too Disney for what I´d refer to as a worldly soul, rather than a jaded soul like mine... this little gem popped out of nowhere from a 19-year-old university student:

´Would you rather sleep in a room full of lesbians, or a room full of strippers... who are sick.´

She said this last part, ´who are sick´, with emphasis, realizing this last detail would probably make the strippers look really, really bad. It wasn´t clear, though, just what said strippers were indeed stricken with. Was it gout? Did they just have a headache? Was it the black plague? I had to find out, but I couldn´t form the words because I was laughing so much. So were my American classmates. We snorted, chuckled, slapped our knees, completely lost it and, with all of our stomach clutching and tear wiping, completely freaked out the Mexicans with our reaction to their very innocent game.

All this led to a very interesting discussion the next morning about homosexuality. Some were fine with it, others didn´t want lesbians sitting next to them for fear of molestation (lesbians, you really have a lot of work to be done here in Mexico). In the end, we all agreed it would be best to make friends with a homosexual in order to better understand their lifestyle. So an SOS to all the gays and lesbians reading this - please come befriend Mexicans. They need you.

Infirmed strippers, however, might want to vacation elsewhere.

I would tell you all about a beach weekend that included 18 hours of overnight bus travel and a night sleeping in a suspended ´bed´on a cliff at the hippie commune, but the story sort of ends when I vomited my papaya and yogurt breakfast all over the sea turtle rescue park and I´d rather not memorialize that tale in writing. Whatever you´ve heard about Mexican drinking water, it´s true. And I apologize to the sea turtles, because I love them.

Living in Oaxaca for the last month has been a fabulous start to my adventure. I´ve been living with a 78-year-old woman who makes her living renting rooms and a hot shower to mostly American students. I´m just one of about 300 who have stayed in her casa over the years, and I think all 300 of us should count our blessings - Maria Elena´s food is made from scratch, of the authentic Oaxaqueno style, and super yummy. She is forever cracking jokes, none of which I´ve ever understood, but giggling in solidarity doesn´t really need translation.

She has 8 children, 11 grandchildren and 2 dogs. Everybody wants to talk, until they realize I don´t talk back. Or at least not well.

"Years, how many?" I asked one granddaughter.

"´How old are you?´" she replied.

"No, years, how many?"

"Of course, ´How old are you?´" She was trying to help. It didn´t stick.

"Oh shoot! You don´t understand the word `years`?"

She is 15. I had much better luck talking with another granddaughter, age 5, about our mutual admiration for butterflies, specifically in colors pink, red, and yellow, but not black. They´re scary.

The house is huge, I suspect. Two student rooms in the back garden, 5 rooms in the main house, 2 dining rooms, 2 parlors, a back garden, a front garden, a cactus garden, and a special zone for the maid (who travels one hour each way and earns $15 a week) to iron, wash clothes or do whatever. When I asked Maria Elena if her house was typical in Mexico, she said, ´No.' We did not discuss further.

Everything was going great until Crazy Sandra arrived. Last week at lunch, a woman in her 60s buzzed the door, with chopped white hair that stood straight up, shocked, like her wild, sad eyes. She had stayed at the same house 9 years ago as a Spanish student and had been living in South America teaching English. She was on her way home to North Carolina. Did I mind sharing my bathroom?

At first, Crazy Sandra was very nice. She took the room adjacent to mine and she told me of her adventures teaching. I found her very worldly and brave. Then she invited me for a beer - I had one, she had three, and learned she hates the United States, she´s divorced and her two daughters think she´s nuts.

"You mean crazy, as in ´my mom´s so cool, she´s traveling around the world, following her dreams´kind of crazy?" I asked.

"No. I mean crazy, as in pathologically." Her wild eyes got wilder, and I swear her hair started quivering. I know I did.

Crazy Sandra told me her dentist thinks our host sister is bipolar. She complained about the maid for moving her books so she could clean. She wears pajamas at all hours. She is constantly sick, tired, victimized, and tells me all about it. She also feels at liberty to correct my Spanish, which is really a lost cause for any human being. And the final, damning indictment against Crazy Sandra? She doesn´t like the dogs. The wiener-beagle was crying one day and she threatened to bust his nose. New rule of thumb: people who tell you they are pathologically crazy should be trusted with that fact, and that fact alone.

And so it is with some bittersweet feelings I move on to Mexico City tomorrow, and off to Ecuador next week, away from the beauty of Mexico and its people and away from Crazy Sandra. And Guns. Que triste. More adventures to follow...

Oaxacan on Sunshine

Some people have asked me if my year around the world is really a metaphor for a personal journey to the far reaches of my soul. Anyone who knows me, knows I lack the patience for that level of introspection. I'm not reading Dostoyevsky, Kerouac or anything sponsored by Oprah this year. Who wants to sit around and self-obsess when you can self-medicate with a frosty cerveza in the sun?

So, what am I doing? I'm taking a year off to see the world. Some of you may already know about my trip. In fact, it's been converted into a major motion picture starring Julia Roberts currently playing in theaters across the country. But in case we've been out of touch, you should know I'm now a 30-year-old woman with no job, no apartment, no car, no boyfriend and so far, no regrets.

My first stop is Mexico, where I arrived in Oaxaca City last week and enrolled in a Spanish school to prepare myself for the upcoming months in South America. The school placed me not in the beginner's class, but in the second level after leaving 90% of the placement exam blank, and flunking 95% of what I did fill out. Apparently they have a lot more faith in my potential, but I mainly got stuck with the smarties after boasting I had taken Italian in college. I didn't think it was prudent to mention my straight C average in said Italian classes, so now I get to attempt sentence writing and conversation with classmates who have vastly greater knowledge of grammar, structure, vocabulary and all other skills necessary to learn a foreign language.

I fear my long-suffering teacher, Ita - who has the patience of the Buddha and fabulously groomed eyebrows framed by posh Burberry spectacles - will soon realize I am a dolt and put me with the kiddies class. At her first read-through of my attempt to write a dialogue, I watched with trepidation as her left eyebrow began to quiver:

Would you like you us to watch acrobats on air with me?
Maybe, but no I you like humans levitation presentation.
Taller?
I think the circuses is but for the animals.
This thing event no to have the only body of the humans dead.
Kindness.

Based on my performance the first week, I'd like to think I can't get any worse. However, when I close my eyes at night, I see Ita's brows ticking up and down with pity. Perhaps I should take a personal journey to the depths of my underachievement in all formal language training. My Spanglish, however, has never been better:

Do you habla the Pepto Bismol? Is it cheapo?

That thing! I amored it!

I am el vaca de las oraciones (I am the cow of sentences)

Luckily, people in Mexico are very gracious. And very religious. I've realized it's hard to be godless in this country - everybody wants you to pick a side. Last week the park had a festival that included a lot of live music. My favorite was a band of teenagers covering Nirvana, the White Stripes and Metallica with aplomb (ok, the 14-year-old girl singer was unconvincing as Ozzy Osbourne). The best part was when they turned up their amp when the Christian Evangelists stated singing - in English - about 50 feet away. With a snappy hook and half an orchestra, including strings, horns, drums and a synthesizer primarily utilized for it's 'crashing thunder' effect at the crescendo of ballads, they sang their little blonde-haired, blue-eyed souls out. My otherwise discreet lunch spot turned into Jesus Disco vs. Death Metal, both in competition with festival booths of selling raw beef, Chinese-made cell phone accoutrements and illegally copied CDs of Olivia Newton John's Greates Hits.

It was fabulous and noisome all in one go. I didn't know who to listen to, so I left for salsa class and didn't pick a side.

As part of my life dream to be on America's Ballroom Challenge in magenta heels, a fringe dress with sparkles commingling with sequins, and a severe side parting, I've started taking salsa classes at the school. Four days a week, it's me and a gaggle of mostly Americans following the lead of our teacher who has infinite patience and marvelous biceps. He used to dance with the folk ballet, but I can picture him doing greater things in life as my partner on ABC. We dance in our tennis shoes in the school's courtyard each evening when the clouds roll in and the Oaxacan sprinkles sometimes make the turns more exciting. It's all very Dirty Dancing and our maestro - whom hereinto I shall refer to as Guns - is very Patrick Swayze, but in track pants and a one-size-too-small soccer jersey.

Obviously, I never skip dance class.

All of us girls have a little crush on Guns. We went out one night as a big gaggle of gringas to a salsa club called La Candela, which, in my agnostic opinion, is the Holy Grail of salsa in Oaxaca. The dance floor is in the middle of candlelit tables arranged to face the live band pouring Latin life into merengues, salsas, cumbias and the odd bachata. If you don't know what those are, just imagine a lot of hip-shaking and you're pretty much there.

All the ladies from my class danced and goofed around until... Guns arrived. Then we sobered up, tried to play it cool. The gentleman he is, Guns took each of his students out for a turn on the floor and we lost it. Squealing with delight, we huddled together with abject glee and traded all our maturity as educated, independent, globe-trekking sophisticates to become 12-year-old Justin Beiber groupies. Guns is our Justin Beiber. La Candela is our Casablanca. And that night I proclaimed - remarkably only after one glass of wine - that I was born to dance the salsa!

My illusions of grandeur precede me and I believe I will never live that statement down until I leave this country.