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.

Bugs, bats y banditos

I learned something about myself this week: I am not the kind of person who likes slippery rocks. Specifically walking on them.

I came upon this realization just the other day whilst sneaker surfing over said slippery rocks and trying to avoid bats flying into my hair. That´s right – I was in a bat cave in the Guatemalan highlands after a day of ´swimming´(read: bobbing without putting my head in the water) at a place called Semuc Champey, which is a series of tranquil turquoise hot springs sitting atop an angry river rushing below in the same region.

Frolicking in mineral water is always nice. But hanging out in a bat cave¿ Well, we didn´t really realize the bats would be doing anything when we went in. I thought bats just hung out, upside down, letting whatever blood they just sucked rush to their heads, which always looked like an uncomfortable way to sleep if you ask me. Well, we were in this bat cave just before dinnertime – so while it was placid (and slippery!) upon entrance, the sun went down, the creepy faces in the cave walls got creepier, and the bats started flying. Over my head. Next to my face. In my hair. If you´ve ever had your hair fluffed by a hungry bat on its way to dinner, or perhaps 2 million of them at once, take my word for it: weird.

I have been feeling very Bat Girl ever since... sans leather, doesn´t breathe well.

There was a breeze in the creepy cave thanks to all the bat flying. Do they fly in schools¿ In flocks¿ In vampiric 666 formations¿ I must know.

Okay, so they weren´t blood bats – they were fruity. But still, they could have switched and I could have died. In fact, it was my second brush with death this week, although the first was more serious.

Our caravan of gringos (including me as the sole American, thank you, plus my new English friend Sophie, and 4 Israelis) was beholden by banditos upon arrival in Guatemala City, thanks to our corrupt driver who pimped us out to some young boys on the street as we were approaching the ´bus station.´ We were all supposed to switch buses and head north at the actual station, but our driver motioned to the banditos on our approach who jumped in our van and handed our driver some money. Red Flag No. 1. Then we were taken to a back alley where they hurriedly tried to push us into their van, promising us a cheap rate to our next city, while creating a chaotic scene with lots of yelling, ordering and running in circles. Flag No. 2.

The banditos loaded all of our stuff onto the van and two of the Israelis got on when the van started to leave! With all of our stuff and two of our people! I learned something else this week – not about myself, but about our world: You don´t fuck with Israelis.

So menacing:


Did you know they carry their Army knives with them, and they aren´t the wimpy Swiss kind for cheese and beer caps¿ Think of that scene from ¨Crocodile Dundee¨ and okay, it´s about 1/4 the size, but the same shock value. It´s definitely not for butter.

To our rescue came the Israeli men, shouting and posturing and firmly telling our banditos that no, thank you, we do not want you Shuttle to Doom and by the way, do you know where I come from¿ Israel, sucka! It helped our curly-haired guys were 2 feet taller than the gang, and one of them in particular spoke perfect Spanish.

I never really had any feelings toward Israelis before, but now I´m all about the Jews.

Anyway, we got our stuff and my new heroes found us a legitimate shuttle to Coban (i.e. pools and bat caves!). I´ve been in a town called Flores for 3 days, which is in the Northeast corner of the country and today visited my first Mayan ruin – Tikal. Apparently it is THE best ruin of the vast ruinous remains of those poor Mayans who just couldn´t seem to get the architecture right. I wonder if the Guggenheim one day will be a ruin… What is it to BE a ruin¿ Are we all ruined in our own way¿ Do we all fall apart and disappear under canopies of tropical plants, crushed by twisted roots strangling our very ¨ítness¨¿

I will have to ponder that while I drink beer and watch the sunset tonight over a gorgeous blue lake. I´ll get back to you.

Anyway, there were lots of tall buildings with connections to the moon and sun and stars, which I would have totally been into if I hadn´t had to get up at 3 am to see the damn place for a ¨special sunrise¨ tour. Taking in a breathtaking sunrise over a jungle with temples thousands of years old peeking through the canopy sounds like a good idea, until the 300 other gringos you´re with start crackling their McMuffin wrapper, spraying Deet voraciously, smacking their gum and turning their cameras on and off, with all the dings, pings and pongs of Super Mario Brothers. Ooh, that shows my lameness factor. Okay, Wii¿

Better highlights of Tikal: freaky loud howler monkeys in the middle of a land war, colourful toucans, spider monkeys, monster moths and a tarantula that would not come out of his nest to play. At last, my first real jungle!

Am going to Belize tomorrow for some quality beach time, and yes, more chillaxin. I may end up on a island called Caye Caulker… Any suggestions on Belize are welcome!

One closing thought for those who think I´m having too much fun: Bugs, of the bed, wing and intestinal variety…

Love,

Jules