The Flea.

Okay. So maybe ''The Flea'' isn't the proper name for this post, since it's actually about parasites.
Yes. You read correctly.

Parasites.

Here's the thing: apparently, it's really common in this part of the world to take a pill that kills the parasites in your body....every 6 months.

I kid you not. There are commercials of Asian families speaking Spanish, singing a jingle about taking their anti-parasitic.

When I first heard this, I thought it was a joke.
"No way." Those are the exact words I spoke.

Jethro proceeded to explain to me that in these parts, parasites live in everything. Your food. Your water. The air in the markets.

Then he told me about one parasite that lays eggs in your body, sometimes in your brain, and if the eggs hatch you die.  Or become a vegetable. Or lose your speech.

....and that is why people take anti-parasite pills.

So it's been about 2 weeks since this terrible news was broken to me, and all I can think about is how never, not a single time in my entire 26 years of existence, have I ever taken a pill to kill parasites in my body.

I'm convinced that my insides are crawling with microscopic, and not so microscopic, blood sucking, intestine biting creatures that are taking my life force and starting families in my guts.

Seriously. Could this be the reason for the dark circles under my eyes? The strange abdominal pains that awake me in the night?

Are parasites nocturnal?

I think I've accidentally waited this long because I'm afraid. I don't think I need to explain why or what it is I'm afraid of.

And here's a question: why don't we do this in the USA? Are we the only country that doesn't do this? Do we think we're just immune to parasites? Doesn't anyone know that a good portion of our produce comes form Mexico?

Or, is everyone in on this? Has everyone always been taking measures against parasites?
Am I the only one who didn't know about this?

A Beautiful Life.

So this is the truth of the situation, my living situation.
You have seen the snapshots and read the snippets I share on Facebook, and have likely come to your conclusions about what life is like down here.

But while I was reading an email from a cousin of mine, who shared a little bit about the culture of where she's living in Argentina, I realized I haven't really explained anything.

So here it is. The truth:

México is not a poor country. The government is incredibly wealthy...however the majority of that money sits in political pockets, and doesn't find its way to where it belongs. You know. With the people.

So México is not poor. But there are a lot of poor Mexicans. Unfortunately, the further you live away from México City, the poorer it gets. It's very Hunger-Gamesy. Those in the Federal District have more money. Those furthest away have the least.

I am living in the 2nd poorest state in México, a place called Oaxaca (pronounced wah-ha-kah). While there may not be a ton of money flowing through the state (it's so poor the government has special prices on everything. Gym memberships are 1/3rd the cost that they are just 3 hours north in Puebla. Tortillas are 7 pesos for half a kilo so that people can afford them), the area is very rich in culture. There is a heavy indigenous presence here, and this translates into everything. Walking down the street you hear the various dialects of indigenous languages (such as zapoteco or triqui) being spoken. The pueblos where they live are about 30 minutes outside the city, and there you can encounter generational crafters making weaved goods, alebrijes (one of the most amazing things I've ever encountered in my life), and barro verde/negro - which is pottery specific to this region.

These things can also be encountered in the city, but you get a deeper understanding of the process when you get into the villages.

Many people equate poverty with danger. I am here to confirm that Oaxaca is not a dangerous state. Many of you are aware of what is happening in Guerrero, Michoacan, and on the border. These areas do not represent the majority of México. Yes, what is happening there is very dangerous, and very sad. But, just like Detroit and the south side of Chicago, or the east side of Los Angeles do not speak for the majority of the USA, these rogue regions of México do not represent the entire country.

Like in any city in any country in the world, crime does occur here...but it's not very unlike what you experience in your own town. In fact, Oaxaca is a safer place than Minneapolis...and the weather is much more agreeable.

Speaking of weather, etc., let me paint you a picture of a normal day in the city (for me):

I leave my house at 830am, and I am greeted by the sound of metal security doors being released as businesses begin to open for the day. Traffic is just starting to pick up, and there is a faint smell of exhaust in the air. The sun hits me and instantly warms me up; this time of year it's in the 60s at night and near 80 in the afternoons. Layered clothing is a must.

I check 6 ways before I cross the street, as pedestrians do not have the right of way and cars and bikes come flying out of nowhere all the time. As I cross out of the sun over to a shadier part of the street, I have to pick up my pace to bustle my way ahead of 3 people blocking the sidewalk, and walking very, very slowly. As I get to the next street, a taxi slows down to see if I want to get in, but all they do is impede my path and make me yell ''muevete!!" (move it!). I pass a really old lady with a witches voice, begging for food or money.

"Señora" she croaks at me. "Me regalas comiiiiida? Por favor!?"
Her voice is desperate but I carry on ahead. There will be another hungry woman on the next corner, and a family begging on the next. There is nothing I can do to remedy the situation.

I pass a man playing an accordion. His son asks for monedas, and I give him a handful of suckers. They both seem satisfied.

I look up and get a chance to take in my surroundings. The teachers are still on strike in the Zocalo, making it impossible to walk through. Vendors have taken up the remaining space. It's best to avoid that area, despite how much I love it. It's a mess and beginning to smell.

I go north, and smile as I remember for the 100th time how much I love the colors on the buildings, and the way the clouds sit always stuck in the mountains. The elevation isn't that high, but for whatever reason those clouds always hover there. I'm not paying attention and I almost get hit by a taxi. Neither of us gets angry.

I pass a man selling tamale tortas on the corner (at this time of day, there is a tamale cart on every corner). School kids huddle around him. It's an easy and convenient breakfast (but an awful lot of carbs!). I walk half a block further and buy fruit and juice from a lady with a post in the doorway. $2.50 for breakfast. She sells the best stuff in the city.

A block ahead is Santo Domingo. I decide if I want to go straight, and greet the jewelry vendors, or take a right and go around the backside of the botanical garden. Either way I end up walking through the modestly size Conzatti park, where one group is meeting for a bike ride, and another is having bible study. There's also a tai chi group by the fountain. I say hello to the shoe shiners and nod at the doctors eating breakfast in Cafe Arabia.

I pass a school as I get close to the place where I work. Parents say goodbye to their kids. One mom is wearing sweats, a tshirt, and 4 inch stilettos. I have to stifle a laugh, and then I almost trip over the tree stump of the tree with a face painted on it.

By this time, 5 people have called me güerita, 3 people have said something crass, several have exchange with me polite hellos, and 1 or 2 stray dogs have attempted to follow me to my final destination.

I arrive at work to be greeted by a chorus of ''buenos días! muy buenos días!'' and run to the bathroom (by this time I've been walking for 30 minutes). The septic system in Mexico cannot handle waste paper; everything goes into the waste basket. I wonder to myself if I will get confused when I get back to the states....

After work, I decide to take a shower. I heat my gas water heater with a lighter, and wait 15 minutes for the water to heat up. In the shower, I wash my socks and underwear because the laundromat doesn't do it for you. I am no longer careful to avoid getting the water in my mouth. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth with it. I'm still alive. I have to remember to turn off the water heater. My house smells like camping for a while afterward...

I like it.

The kitchen does not have hot water, but if I wait to wash my dishes until the afternoon, the sun will have been heating the water tanks on the roof, and I will get hot water for the dishes. Tricky.

I open my windows and a burst of hibiscus flowers is just on the other side. I listen to the traffic, and wonder if tomorrow I'll eat a tlayuda (google it) or settle for pasta in my apartment.

There is always more to share. I could keep writing about food (Oaxaca has a lot to offer. It's best that I just take pictures and do a photo essay to explain it), or people to be encountered throughout the city. I could tell you about the independent art museums, or the atmosphere of the city at night.

But there is time for that in the future.
The point is that there is so much to love and appreciate about this city, and not to share as much as I can would be an utter waste and shame.

It really is a beautiful life. 

Why Oaxaca, and...Don't I Miss My Family?

So, occasionally Jethro and I play the "you ask me a question, and then I ask you a question" game. Yesterday, he asked me the following questions:

1.) Why Oaxaca? 

2.) Don't you miss your family?

A veces, Jethro y yo jugamos el "pregúntame algo" juego. 

Ayer, me preguntó dos preguntas:

1.) ¿Por qué Oaxaca?

2.) ¿Extrañas a tu familia?

I get these questions from other people as well, and figured they'd make for an interesting blog post. If you end up super bored, I apologize. 

Otras personas me han preguntado esto también, y pienso que están buenos temas para un nuevo ''blog post.''

Si mueras de aburrimiento, te ofrezco mis disculpas. 

Actually, I don't. 

Ok, maybe a little. 

...o tal vez no. 

Okay. Quizá un poco. 

Anyway - let's start with #1: Why Oaxaca?

-- When I decided to have the immersion Spanish experience, I asked around. I asked friends who had done Spanish immersion programs all over the place, and they said 1.) do it, it'll work wonders on your Spanish and 2.) go to Oaxaca. 

People who studied in Puebla, Chiapas, Guatemala, Mexico City, and Guadalajara had all come, at some point, to Oaxaca...and it made a big enough impression that all of them said "go there." It didn't hurt that the price was also ridiculously reasonable...and that a lifelong dream of mine to experience a genuine Day of the Dead could be attained in Oaxaca. 

Okay. Vamos a empezar con #1: ¿Por qué Oaxaca?

-- Cuando decidí tener la experiencia de inmersión de español, pregunté a unos amigos que ya habían estudiado en programas en lugares diferentes (en México y otros países) y me dijeron dos cosas... 1.) hazlo! va a ayudar a tu español! y 2.) vete a Oaxaca! 

Gente que había estudiado en Puebla, Chiapas, Guatemala, el DF, y Guadalajara habían visitado a Oaxaca y la ciudad les hizo una impresión fuerte...tan fuerte que todas mis dijeron venir aquí. Y también el precio estaba muy reasonable...y tuve el sueño de tener la experience del Día de los Muertos...y sabía que podría actualizar este sueño aquí. 

So I bought the tickets...and within days was in love. 

Here's the thing...I was born an outsider. I was born in Germany to American parents, I was raised in Japan with blonde hair and blue eyes and an intermediate grasp of the language. I lived overseas longer than I lived in my legal country. I have always been a foreigner everywhere I go, including the US...and if I have to be a gaijin, foreigner, extranjera... I might as well be allowed to choose a place where that doesn't bother me. 

And it doesn't bother me here. 

I finally feel like I have a home, and I refuse to walk away from that feeling. 

Compré mis boletos y me enamoré en unos días. 

Fíjate que siempre he estado una "extranjera." Nací una extranjera. Nací en Alemania a papás de los EEUU, crecí en Japón con cabello rubio y ojos claros y con una comprensión intermedia del idioma. Viví afuera de los EEUU más años que viví en el país. Siempre he estado una extranjera en todas partes, incluso mi ''propio''país...y si tengo que ser un ''gaijin'' o ''foreigner'' or ''extranjera''...¿por qué no elijo el lugar por mi misma? 

Y aquí no me molesta que soy diferente, que soy extranjera, güera, gaijin... porque finalmente me siento como si tuviera un hogar, y me niego rechazar este sentimiento.  

So here comes question #2: Don't you miss your family?

The quick and easy answer is: yes, of course. 

But in the time I've lived overseas, or on the opposite side of the country, I've learned that my family is only ever 12 - 15 hours away (with flights and layover times...25ish hours by vehicle). I grew up understanding that families can love each other without living next door to one another. 

Llegamos a pregunta #2: ¿Extrañas a tu familia?

La respuesta corta es: claro que sí....

...pero en el tiempo que he vivido ''afuera'' o lejos, pero en el mismo país, he aprendido que mi familia siempre está cerca... 12 - 15 horas por avión, o 25 horas por coche. Crecí con el entendimiento de que families pueden querer y apoyar uno a otro sin estar vecinos.  

I do occasionally lament that I can't attend every school function my siblings have, but at the same time they know - without a doubt - that there is no one in this world who loves them more than I do...and that I will easily shake the sun out of the sky to make the important things happen. 

A veces me lamento el hecho de que no había podido asistir cada evento de las vidas de mis hermanitos, pero al mismo tiempo saben que - sin duda - no hay nadie en este mundo que los quiere más que yo, y que fácilmente quitaría al sol del cielo para hacer posible las cosas importantes.  

Plus, living overseas gives my family the opportunity to travel somewhere new and do something exciting. :) 

Además, vivir en otro país presenta a mi familia con la oportunidad para viajar a un lugar nuevo, y hacer algo diferente. 

The hard and dirty truth is this: I'm really happy. 

Oaxaca makes me happy. 

My life here is a happy one. 

My family is happy that I am happy. 

So I suppose, now, I turn the tables and ask you the same questions...

1.) Why are you where you are?

2.)  How does your family factor in the equation?

La verdad - simple y clara es: Estoy muy feliz. 

Estar en Oaxaca me hace feliz. 

Mi vida aquí en una vida feliz. 

Mi familia está feliz porque estoy feliz. 

Ahora, te pregunto las mismas cosas....

1.) ¿Por qué estás donde estás?

2.) ¿Como afecta esto tu familia? 

Hundred. Dollah. Bills.

Picture this:

You are in Billings, Montana. You have a $50 bill in your wallet, and you want some Mountain Dew. That Mountain Dew costs $2.50 (because you're buying it in a bottle, not in a super sized cup). You drive your unnecessarily large truck to the nearest gas station, pick out your bottle, and walk up to the cash register.

The cashier says, "That'll be $2.50." You open your wallet, and hand him a $50 bill.
He gives you $47.50 in change. You say, "Hey, thanks. Have a good one." He nods, and smiles, and says, "See ya around."

And you continue with your life.

Imagínate esto:

Estás en Billings, Montana. Tienes sed, y quieres un Mountain Dew. También tienes USD$50.00 en tu bolsillo. Un Mountain Dew tiene un precio de US$2.50 (porque vas a comprar una botella, no una copa super grande como normal). Manejas tu camioneta enorme al estación de gas, eliges tu botella, y estás lista para pagar. 

El cajero te dice, "Va a costar US$2.50." Abres tu cartera, y le das US$50.00 en efectivo. 
Te da US$47.50 de cambio, se sonríe y te dice, "Gracias. Nos vemos."

Sigues viviendo tu vida. 

Now picture this:

You are in Oaxaca, Oaxaca. You have a 500 peso bill in your pocket (about US$45.00), and you want to eat lunch at your favorite restaurant, with a fixed price menu of 100 pesos. You walk to the restaurant, sit down, eat the delicious food, and then ask for the bill.

You pull a 500 bill out of your pocket, and put it in the check holder. The waiter takes it.
Then he brings it back and asks if you have change. Two things can happen at this point:

1.) You dig through all of your pockets and bags looking for change. You come upon a 200 peso bill. The waiter asks again if you're sure you don't have exact change. You say you're sure. He takes your 200 pesos, but everyone knows he's slightly annoyed.

2.) You don't have change. You begin to apologize profusely. You thought you had 100 pesos. You were sure. The waiter goes to the kitchen, they don't have change. The waiter asks people in the restaurant if they can break 500 pesos. You hang your head in a shame. They say no (because change for 500 pesos does not exist). Finally, the waiter leaves the restaurant and goes to a neighboring store where someone breaks the 500 peso bill.

Ahora, imagínate esto:

Estás en Oaxaca. Tienes 500 pesos en tu cartera y quieres comer en tu restaurante favorito, con un menú diario de 100 pesos. Caminas al restaurent, te sientas, y comes bien. Le pides al mesero la cuenta, y cuando llegue, pongas 500 de efectivo adentro. El mesero lo lleva....y regresa para preguntarte si tienes cambio. 

Ahora, 2 cosas pueden pasar:

1.) Empiezas buscar frenéticamente en todos tus bolsillos, tu mochila, etc. Encuentres 200 pesos. El mesero te pregunta otra vez si no tienes cambio exacto. Le dices que no, estás seguro que no tienes cambio exacto y el mesero se va con un poco de frustración en su cara. 

2.) No tienes cambio. No sabes cómo pasó esto. Estabas seguro que tenía cambio contigo, pensaste que había 100 pesos en tu cartera. Tienes vergüenza y no puedes mirar a nadie en la cara. El mesero empieza a preguntar a la gente en el restaurante si tienen cambio. Por supuesto, nadie lo tiene. Finalmente, el mesero se va a otra empresa y regresa con tu cambio. 

I have discovered that there are really only 3 ways you can change out 500 pesos:
1.) Have a really good relationship with someone who owns a high traffic business, and be careful not to abuse the 500 peso bill breaking more than 2x a month.
2.) Have a local bank account, and stand in the epically long lines at the bank in hopes that the cashier will break your money.
3.) Buy something that costs more than 300 pesos (but then you're spending a lot of money...to get change...)

Every time I see people running between businesses with bills in their hands, I laugh.
I get it.
It is the game of the 500 peso bill.
A dance. A puzzle. A joke.

He descubierto que realmente solo hay 3 maneras en que puedes recibir cambio de 500 pesos:

1.) Tienes que tener un buen amigo que tiene una empresa con muchos clientes. 
2.) Tienes que tener una cuenta de banco aquí, y tener paciencia con las filas, y también suerte de que el cajero vaya a cambiar tu dinero. 
3.) Tienes que comprar algo que cuesta más que 300 pesos (pero vas a perder 300 pesos, y solo vas a tener ~200 de cambio). 

Cada vez que veo a una persona correr entre negocios, con la esperanza de cambiar dinero, tengo que reírme. 
De repente, lo entiendo. 
Es el juego de los 500.
Es un baile. Un rompecabeza. Una broma. 

And I find that there are no words that describe, in full detail, the look on someones face when you pull out a 500 bill...or when someone walks into a room and asks if someone has change for 500.

It is a pained and exasperated expression which translates roughly to: sorry, I can't help...but boy, do I feel your pain.

If it were up to me, the 500 peso bill would be an ancient artifact.
It is not needed.
It is unwanted.
It has no admirers.

And now, for a musical accompaniment...

Y no hay palabras para explicar la mirada en la cara de alguien cuando otra persona entra el cuarto y pregunta, "alguien tiene cambio de 500?"

Es una mirada que dice algo entre, "Claro que no, pero entiendo muy bien tu posición."

Si podría eliminar el billete de 500, lo haría. 
No es querido. 
No es necesario. 
No tiene ningún amigo ni admirador. 

y ahora...para una canción del tema... 

A Love Letter

I love Oaxaca.

I realize that this isn't a huge secret. But it is the truth. I just love it here.
I've been sick since before I got here...but do I care?

No.
How can I?
I'm in love with Oaxaca, and who can be sick when they are in love?

There's enough out there for me to enjoy that I find a way to conquer whatever it is that ails me, and put myself in the sun. On the terrace. In the streets.

I've been here a week, but it feels like forever....in the best way. Like the pieces finally fit. Like somehow, I was always here.

TCKs will understand this. For example, I was walking down the street thinking today about normal things: groceries, my plans for holidays, doctors appointments, hanging out with friends..

...and at no point did I stop to think, "In the next place I live, I'll...."

Nope. That door is closed for now. There is no next place I'd rather live. Not yet. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next April.

I suppose I never stopped to think about what beautiful feels like.
But it feels like this.

And I hope someday, you find it too.

Dictators.

It was a new day; it was a sun-rise over mountains, car fumes in the lungs, and a dirty blonde street dog.
Era un nuevo día; era un amanecer sobre las montañas, el humo de los coches en los pulmones, y una perrita rubia y sucia. 

I was told to walk with purpose, to cross at the corner with as many people as possible. To avoid the small park at night, and not to eat anything spicy or too rich for at least 5 more days.
Me dijeron que caminar con un propósito, y cruzar en la esquina con la otra gente...evitar el parque más pequeño en la noche, y no comer algo picante o rico por lo menos 5 días más.  

Give yourself time to adjust.
Necesitas tiempo para ajustar.

Adjustments. It seems that adjusting just what we do, isn’t it? We adjust to new climates, new cultures, new people, new jobs. All the time we’re just shifting in our own skins, trying to find the most comfortable position.

Los ajustes. Parece que el ajuste es lo que hacemos, no? Ajustamos a nuevos climas, nuevas culturas, nueva gente, nuevos trabajos. Todo el tiempo estamos moviendo debajo de nuestros propios pieles, buscando la posición más confortable. 

It was a new week; it was another language, a bitter drink, and dancing until the early hours of the morning. We represented – at some points – 8 different nations. We spoke of jobs and journeys and one by one, and in various ways, we slowly admitted we were running. Running from oppressive things and closed minded thinking, towards being alive but being afraid. If you don’t adjust in the expected ways, then you really don’t know what is supposed to happen next.

Era una nueva semana; era otro idioma, una bebida amarga, y bailando hasta la madrugada. Representábamos (a veces) 8 países distintos. Hablábamos de trabajos y aventuras y uno por uno admitimos que corríamos...de cosas opresivas, de mentes cerradas, hacia la esperanza de vivir vidas completas...pero con miedo. Si no ajustas a la vida como la mayoría de la gente del mundo, no puedes saber lo que va a seguir. 

And so we created our own realities, we chose the next chapter in the book.
We lived by the dictates of our own consciousness.
Por eso, estábamos construyendo nuestras propias realidades. Elegimos el proximo capitulo del libro. Estábamos viviendo por los dictados de nuestras propias conciencias.

Sometimes, a collective conscious. Other times, we were 8 nations living individually side-by-side. In camionetas. In the streets. On beaches.
A veces con una conciencia colectiva. Otras veces, estábamos 8 naciones viviendo vidas individuales pero lado a lado. En las playas. En las camionetas. En las calles. 
 
It was a new perspective; it was remembering how – who – I was before I forgot.
It was a regeneration.
It was a right decision.
It was all smiles, human contact, and summer skin.

I was told to walk with purpose – and I found one.

Era una nueva perspectiva; era la memoria de cómo - quién - era antes de que se me olvidó.
Era una regeneración.
Era la decisión correcta.
Era sonrisas, contacto humano, y piel de verano.
Me dijeron que caminar con un propósito...y lo encontré. 

Departure Day

It's been a while. I've had a bit of a dry spell, I guess. Everything worth writing about has been to important for a public blog, so it's been somewhere else.

You know. Girls and their diaries.

Anyway - it's time to revive the blog....at least for now. Because I'm going to Mexico. Between traveling alone, as a vegan with celiac disease and a compromised immune system...If I can't come up with something interesting to write, then I should never write again.

Today, right now, I travel. Currently, I'm sitting the freezing Atlanta airport and trying to keep myself entertained. And warm.

I've been up since 0430 hours, and in the last 8 hours I've stood in the longest security line of my life, I've been groped (apparently wearing a sparkly shirt through those body scanners just makes you look like you're sprinkled in shrapnel or something), I've cleaned out a currency exchange office of their entire stock of pesos (luckily, I was the first customer of the day...at 6AM), made an airplane friend, and walked the entire length of the Atlanta airport.

I even had time to squeeze an episode of Grey's Anatomy in. Parting is such sweet sorrow....

By the way, the first flight (MSP - ATL) was so cold, it refrigerated my water. I'm pretty sure between the cold airplane and airport, I'm going to get hypothermia. I'll die before I ever even get to Oaxaca.

Oh, I should talk about that. Why am I going to Oaxaca? Well, there are a few reasons.

1.) The insatiable appetite for travel. I was born into the world. Not into a city, a town, a state. The world. This is my home, and I want to make sure I know my neighbors, brothers, sisters, friends.

2.) Spanish. I've been working on and trying to learn Spanish for a while. I'm a fairly functional reader/writer/listener...but I'm basically mute as far as speaking is concerned. I have never had to step outside my comfort zone. I have never had the Spanish-immersion experience. I'll be at an immersion school in Oaxaca - for 3 weeks - and living with a local family. If that doesn't force me to (as I tell my students) "use my words" then nothing will.

3.) El Dia de Los Muertos. I remember learning about it in school when I was 13. But textbooks and google searches and a 40 minute class period can only take you so far. I've wanted to experience this for myself for quite some time. Nothing makes you feel more like a grown up (and a totally awesome person) than actually crossing some things of your childhood "dreams" list.

There are other reasons, too. But you've got the ones you need :D

I've got another airport to sit in this afternoon. 4.5 hours in Mexico City. Hopefully I pass through customs without issue. Maybe I'll make a few more new friends. Then a quick flight to Oaxaca, a cab ride to my host family and....October.

Octubre.
Prepare for lift-off.