"A joyous hurricane of nonsense"

I have been searching for a common unifying theme in my life right now and was having an impossible time…until my friend who has been like a sister to me since elementary school and who is always my go-to wordsmith unintentionally handed me the perfect phrase in a Facebook chat:

“Life is a joyous hurricane of nonsense.”

Thanks Em, that´s it exactly.

So I will do my best to describe this joyous nonsensical hurricane that I am living right now, but if these snapshots don´t do it justice, then at least you already have the perfect sentence to summarize my life right now.

"Hola, me llamo Busito!"

Guadalajara

Leaving Mexico City was something I was looking forward to for a while, but I didn´t quite realize just how necessary it was until I was on the bus. My bus left at 5am on Saturday so naturally I slept for the first few hours of the bus ride. Suddenly I was awaked by the glow of the sun on my face, the gentle rocking of the bus, and a view of endless forested hills all around me. I cannot properly describe how rejuvenating and perfect that moment felt. Without realizing it, I had been slowly suffocating, surrounded by concrete and other man-made structures for so long. I felt like I could breathe deeply for the first time in months. I must have looked like a child: my nose pressed again the window, smiling like a maniac. This was probably the only time in my life where I felt the urge to jump out of a moving vehicle and just frolic in the tall grass or sit under a tree on a hill. But what was more amazing to me was not how profoundly I had missed natural habitats, but how just a glimpse of them through a bus window was enough to leave me feeling refreshed and inspired. That´s just the power of nature.

My cousins and me in Tlaquepaque, Guadalajara

Tlaquepaque

Pronounced “tlack-eh-pack-ay” Don´t worry, I had to take a picture of a sign with the name on it and memorize the spelling in order to pronounce it correctly. This neighborhood of Guadalajara is known for its unique art, delicious restaurants, and one-of-a-kind artisanal products. My aunt, uncle and cousins took me there on Saturday afternoon and it was incredible. The glassware and hand-painted crafts were so unique and beautiful it was all I could do to not spend all of the money I had brought with me. We also got to see the Danza de los Voladores (Dance of the Flyers) performed in the town center by a group of indigenous performers that was quite the spectacle. It was wonderful to be welcomed into the home of my aunt and uncle in Guadalajara and I had a blast spending time with my younger cousins, playing card games and sharing delicious food. That night when I went to bed, I cherished the complete and peaceful silence that embraced me as I closed my eyes. No car horns. No tamale vendor or “used mattress-buying” cart announcements. No neighbors´ television programs or opera singing drifting through my window (yes, my neighbor is a legitimate opera singer, or at least thinks he is and practices every other afternoon, even giving concerts in the middle of the night to a round a soft applause on some nights). No stray cat mewing from the staircase. Just silence. Blissful, beautiful silence.

Endeavor National Selection Panel

While visiting family and taking a break from big city life were amazing, the main reason I was in Guadalajara was for work. In a whirlwind of preparation and hours of interviews and deliberations, the national selection panel came and went. While neither of the entrepreneurs with whom I had worked were selected in the end, it was still an inspiring and eye-opening experience. The three other companies that did pass the panel truly showcased their innovation and preparedness to move onto the international panel and we are all routing for them. After the national panel came to an end, the Endeavor staff and panelists shared a casual lunch at a local burger joint. Friendly conversation flowed between business people and entrepreneurs from all walks of life. These panelists voluntarily gave up their weekend to travel to Guadalajara and evaluate the newest Endeavor candidates, and it is their commitment and dedication that truly makes the Endeavor network unique and valuable.

Rainbow before the rain

Sunset before the rain

The Hurricane

Well, it wasn´t a hurricane exactly, but it was certainly one hell of a thunderstorm. The return trip from Guadalajara was spent with my co-workers in a small van that was not designed to carry passengers based on its poor suspension and lack of functional seatbelts. But once again I felt completely relaxed and at home for two reasons: 1. I was once again surrounded by beautiful natural scenery and 2. I have traveled in a cramped sketchy van many, many times on various Villanova events and service break trips that being sandwiched between people and bounced up and down in a van for 7 hours was perhaps the most familiar thing I have done since arriving in Mexico. As we approached Mexico City, we could see the storm ahead. Just before the pounding rain hit the windshield and the van started hydroplaning on turns, we got a glimpse of this beautiful rainbow. A fragment of beauty before the chaos.

Social life

So guess what? After three months of living in Mexico – I have friends! Finally, I have broken my curse of only meeting guys older than me who are about to leave the city! It started very subtly and slowly, like all friendships do. A common interest. Seeing them a few times in a row at different meetup.com group events. And then… it´s been two hours already and we´re still laughing and sharing life stories over dinner or coffee. I´ve finally had those moments where I just clicked with another person and shared my real self. Not the international traveler who has a prestigious fellowship and speaks Spanish and is doing just fine living on her own, thanks. But the idealistic, endlessly curious, nerdy, honest, self-critical, elaborate story-telling, loud-laughing, sometimes awkward, recent college graduate who is still just trying to figure it all out. When you know that the other person is willing to listen to that side of you and share their real selves with you as well, you know that this is someone worth getting to know more. So even though my co-workers still joke around affectionately calling me “abuela” because I don´t like partying much, I enjoy baking, I get excited about doing laundry, and I am a member of a monthly book club, I am finally finding my own group of friends from all different backgrounds and countries to share this amazing city with.

The most peaceful yoga room ever

Rain

While the rainy season should be ending soon, it is not (insert angry climate change comment here). But while the rain is unyielding, at least it is predictable. It comes nearly every night around 6pm or 7pm. And this is great if you are prepared. Which I thought I was. I had gone to yoga all decked out in my raincoat. No purse, just waterproof pockets and workout clothes that would dry easily. So I went to yoga and had an incredible class (as always). I left feeling refreshed and alive and strong. And then I stepped out onto the street and, as if on cue, lightning cracked and thunder shook the sidewalk. Then the raindrops started careening earthward, falling as if meeting the ground was of the utmost necessity. I still had a 20 minute walk ahead of me. No big deal, I thought. I have a raincoat, I thought. Hah. The raindrops also had an insatiable desire to find every single opening in my raincoat. Before I had walked two blocks I was soaked from head to toe. And then, I just stopped caring. I was completely alone on a wide pedestrian sidewalk in the island of the street (common walkways in La Roma and La Condesa neighborhoods) and the rain was so thick I could barely see in front of me. So I jumped in puddles. I skipped. I sang. I spun. And as the storm grew in strength, so did I, careening from puddle to puddle, foot to foot, note to note. By the time I reached my apartment I had a river of water running down my forehead and pouring off my nose like a faucet into my smiling mouth. The puddles in my shoes alone could have quenched my thirst for a week. But as I opened my door, giggling like a child, debating whether it was worthwhile to take another shower, I noticed that the inside of what was supposed to be a waterproof pocket was soaked. And, smile fading, I took out my phone (the inanimate object in my life that I depend on for a scary amount of things that I don´t like to think about often) to find that it too had taken a nice long bath. In a panic, I turned it off, disassembled all of the parts that I could, and rushed to find some dry rice to put them in. (Readers note: when people say to put your phone in rice if it gets wet to absorb the moisture, they mean normal white rice, not organic brown rice. Organic brown rice breaks apart and sticks to all of the little important delicate electronic inner parts of your phone and gives you a heart attack.) But my phone is a champ and despite all sorts of rice and rain related mistreatment, somehow it still works.

Tía Cecilia's birthday meal at Tía Charín's house

Gathering Round the Table

One of my aunts called me a few weekends ago inviting me to celebrate another aunt´s birthday. She had prepared a meal so that the birthday girl (who has always done so much to take care of other family members) wouldn´t have to lift a finger, and had invited a few family members to share it with. We all met at Tía Charín´s house, since it is difficult to leave home when you are 101 years old. Tía Charín welcomed us, birthday girl and all, into her small home, and was very accepting of various furniture re-arranging to accommodate everyone at one table. Sharing this meal with relatives from four different generations, everyone crowded around that one table, I realized that I was a part of something incredibly special. I treasured every last note of conversation and laughter. I cannot even begin to express in words how lucky I am to be able to call all of these incredible people family.

 My cousin Lau and I at Corona Capital

 Belle and Sebastian playing in a field of mud

Mud and Music

Last Sunday my cousin and I went to the Corona Capital music festival, or as some call it the “hipster capital.” The lineup was a dream come true: all of my favorite alternative electronic/rock bands in one day. And then before the first band I knew even came on, the sky opened up. And it poured. It poured that kind of rain that leaves you feeling soaked to the bone. The kind that pelts you sideways, mocking ponchos and raincoats. But then as quickly as it came, it stopped. It was one of those events that could have been a disaster in the perspective of some, but when shared with such an easy-going and upbeat person like Lau, it ended up being an incredible concert with some high-quality mud-dancing and cousin-bonding. Everyone I have told about the concert so far has asked me incredulously, “You stayed til the end?” Of course we did. We were young and mud-soaked and carefree. There is nothing more simultaneously invigorating and exhausting as spending all day on your feet at a concert, soaking in the music of your generation. And just so you don´t worry, our shoes did survive in the end (after a thorough washing).

Sunlight

So in this joyous, nonsensical, tempestuous new life of mine it is easy to miss the little things. Which I am trying hard not to do. And this Monday one of those things found me. I was walking to buy my weekly unavoidably necessary gigantic jug of bottled water (which always makes me cringe because plastic and the environment and ugh), which meant that needless to say I wasn’t in the greatest mood. And then suddenly I turn around and just look at my building and stop. The late afternoon light cast a warm glow on the whole building, and I felt a rush of affection. This was home. This crazy, bustling, welcoming, stressful, eye-opening, heartwarming, beautiful place.

Freedom

 “I’m free, I think. I shut my eyes and think hard and deep about how free I am, but I can’t really understand what it means. All I know is I’m totally alone. All alone in an unfamiliar place, like some solitary explorer who’s lost his compass and his map. Is this what it means to be free? I don’t know, and I give up thinking about it.”

-          Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

My current working definition of freedom: living on your own in a foreign place. There is so much to explore and even after two months there are moments when I still can’t believe that I am here. The possibilities are limitless with the entirety of Mexico City at my fingertips.

But being free can also be lonely.

For anyone living on their own in a new city, I highly recommend Meetup.com. I dove in headfirst, joining any group within a 5 mile radius, eager to meet new people.  I’ve joined a language exchange group, an outdoor adventures club, an Aztec explorers tour group, a vegetarians/vegans meetup, a board game gathering, and a yoga group. There is also a book club and we just got our reading assignment (sounds like I’m in school again haha) for our next book discussion, hence the Kafka on the Shore. It is a bizarre novel, but Murakami certainly nails the paradox of freedom.

It is strange how there are moments when I feel completely at home and others where I feel like I have the word “gringa” written on my forehead. When I’m playing board games with the Meetup group (great way to learn random Spanish words btw, like “comodín” = wild card) I feel at home, like I’ve instantly just made 30 new friends. And then there are those moments where I mess up counting pesos in a restaurant and I feel like an idiot.

Mexico’s independence day, September 16^th, was no stranger to this paradox of freedom and feeling at home. We had a long weekend (“puente”) for the holiday and I was invited to celebrate with the family of a good friend of my cousin Monday night for El Grito (when the president reads a speech remembering the leaders of the Mexican Revolution ending with a proud shout of “¡Viva México!”). This was one of those times where I felt completely at home: I tried pozole, a delicious soup very traditional for independence day and set off firecrackers for the first time in the streets. I felt like a kid again and was glad to have been welcomed with such open arms by my friend’s family.

 Then on the Tuesday the 16^th there was the military parade. This was one of those foreigner moments. As a New Yorker I was expecting some sort of Thanksgiving Day parade equivalent. Military parades are very different. There were no dancers or festive balloons or anything…just an endless trail of guns and artillery and men (and some women) in uniform marching in synchronized steps. It was both impressive and terrifying. I’d never seen so many guns in one place before. It was unsettling to see firsthand the paradox that freedom and violence are often intertwined. The parade was made to make Mexican citizens feel safe and be reminded of the power of their military – both in ammunition and in civil service projects (building bridges, anti-hunger programs etc.). But for me it was a jarring to see children cheering as tanks and anti-aircraft artillery and endless rows of face-painted soldiers marched by.

  So. Many. Guns. 

These are just a few pictures...I took over 100 of pretty much this same thing, in different colors and sizes.

But freedom is not just for countries : individuals also have the freedom to create. Endeavor recently had a staff training session at RedBox (not the DVD rental company from the US, but the innovative Mexican consulting company). Just walking into their office is inspiring with its modern architecture and glowing inspirational quotes on the walls. I felt at home because it was as if I was back in school: desks, a speaker, a conversation about abstract ideas (innovation, inspiration, creativity). In classroom autopilot mode, I furiously took notes before I remembered that there would be no exam at the end of this lesson. It was strange to break down an intangible concept like “innovation” into a concrete process with step by step instructions. Everyone innately has the freedom to be creative, but we construct limits and walls in our minds that make us think we are “just not the creative type” or that we have writer’s block. 

 

It’s incredible that after so many years of civilization we are still able to create new things. Ancient civilizations began this endless process and we continue it, constantly building on what came before. Sometimes literally. Last weekend I visited the Aztec ruins at La Plaza de las Tres Culturas and Templo Mayor. The intricate detail in these constructions from ancient civilizations is incredible, and yet it was so quickly destroyed and covered with new buildings by the Spanish colonists, blind to the beauty of the civilization they sought to conquer. At both of these sites, churches are built directly on top of Aztec temples and pyramids, crushing the Aztec culture and imposing a new ideology on the native civilization. Walking through el Zocalo after visiting both ruins, I found myself wondering what buried ancient treasures lie beneath the concrete under my feet. Freedom and destruction are divided by a fine line. Mexico City used to be a huge lake, until the colonists, free to use as much water as they wanted, used it all up and turned it into a dry urban basin that today we fill with smog.

 La Plaza de las Tres Culturas

 Templo Mayor with the cathedral in the background

Inside the church Nuestra Señora de los Angeles in a neighborhood near La Plaza de las Tres Culturas

So I am free. Free to live on my own in a new country. Free to do so thanks to the efforts of countless people who came before me, creating and destroying. Initially, my new freedom was overwhelming, but these past few weeks have made me more aware of what I can do to use it well. There is so much culture and history to explore here, and I have only just begun.

High Hopes

 

 The view from my office in Santa Fe

 There are two Mexicos. And there are two United States of America and two of every other country. But there are certain moments when the other Mexico stares at you so intensely that you have no idea how the world seems to ignore it.

Mercados. They are EVERYWHERE in Mexico. My roommate and I agreed that Mexico is probably the country with the most food sold in the street because you honestly can’t take more than a few steps without encountering a stand of tamales or tamarindos or tostadas or palanquetas or tunas or….the list is endless.

 

But what shocked me more than the sheer volume of markets was the stark differences between them. My roommate and I went to the Bazar del Barrio in the hipster Condesa neighborhood where vendors sold artisanal cookies and boutique apparel and other expensive crafts, protected by a white tent and illuminated with tiny plastic bauble light bulbs.

Compare that to a cozy park in Coyoacán where artists sold paintings and sculptors and a DJ played salsa music while elderly couples dressed in their Sunday best danced the day away to the clapping and cheering crowd of spectators. There I bought a small book made by a jovial old man. He shared with us that he started making books when he started writing music. Naturally we got to talking about music, guitars and rock and roll. When I asked him what artists he liked to listen to, he abruptly stopped the flow of conversation, looked me in the eye, and said,

“Escuchas a High Hopes por Pink Floyd. Me puso llorar.”

“Listen to High Hopes by Pink Floyd. It made me cry.”

                                                Dancing at the outdoor market on Sunday

And then there was another market in Coyoacán, a labyrinth of stands protected from the sun by sheets and plastic tarps forming narrow passageways crowded with people. Here they sold everything: piñatas, tacos and toys; fresh fruit and dried fruit; clothing and curtains; homeopathic remedies and Cheetos. Navigating the winding maze of stands and goods, you have no idea what you’ll find when you turn the next corner.

As we returned home via the metro, the market never completely ended: people even sold things in the subway cars. Every time the car stopped a new vendor would get on, replacing the one who had just left, filling the car with their sing-song chanting of prices, goods and deals. Once again there was a strange combination of goods represented: from candy to electronics to bubbles.

One bubble vendor in particular caught my attention.

We were two stops away from home, exhausted, and eager to sit down to dinner and rest our legs after a day spent exploring markets. I was fading in and out of daydreams to the sing-song voice of each salesperson in our subway car when suddenly the doors closed and a raspy child’s voice cut through the car’s silence like a knife. 

“¡Buenas tardes, damas y caballeros!”

A boy no older than ten carrying a large box filled with tiny containers of bubbles stumbled into the car, fumbling with the box in his efforts to keep it upright. He took no time starting his chant, delivering it mechanically, phrase after phrase spewing out into the car, forced and rehearsed and shouted. He plowed through, determined to get to the end before the next stop, only taking a second between phrases for a short, gasping breath before continuing.

“¡Hay burbujas!”

*gasp*

”¡de diferentes colores!”

*gasp*

“¡Se valen 5 pesos!”

*gasp*

“¡5 pesos se cuestan!”

By the end of the chant his voice was worse off than when he began, cracking and squeaking in the middle of words, sore from a long day’s work. His gaze was fixed on a point at the far end of the car as he mechanically opened one of the containers, took a long, deep breath that made his small shoulders heave with the effort and blew into the bubble wand. A stream of soap circles billowed into the car, pressing against the doors and windows, bouncing off faces and shoes and backpacks, landing in laps and on heads. One by one the bubbles dispersed, inevitably popping on the hard surfaces of the subway car. One tiny bubble tapped against a cracked window, curious as to what lay beyond the cracked glass, before it was sucked out into the dark abyss.

His chant and demonstration finished, the boy lugged the box of bubbles through the car, glancing at the people seated around him, waiting for someone to acknowledge him and indicate their interest in making a purchase. But no one did.

After his short parade through our car, the boy leaned against the far door. He rested the box of bubbles on one raised knee for a moment before the subway car doors opened with a ding and he continued his mission into the following car.

Having glimpsed a reminder of the other Mexico, I was painfully aware that the exhaustion I was feeling was the result of a day of leisure and shopping.

Before I went to sleep that night I decided to take the old craftsman/musician’s advice and listen to High Hopes. And I cried, too.

 Graffiti along the road on my commute from work every day.

High Hopes by Pink Floyd: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jMlFXouPk8