The dreamiest cafe in all the land.

This is the kind of cafe I want to open. It was in Oaxaxa, and was also a bookshop. All the tables and chairs were mis-matched, and it had no roof, only the branches of huge cherry blossom trees. Maybe widna work quite so well in waaaaaaaas. 

Cool Europeans and temples

A quick blog on Oaxaxa... I forgot to do one when I was there, and actually nothing much happened, but it's so lovely I thought I would mention it. Beautiful and interesting little town. We went to the nearby ruins at Monte Albán which may have been a Spiritual Moment for me. I did feel quite hysterical and euphoric, but I may have been winded from the climb.  They were really spectacular (the ruins, not my palpitations), though you sadly can't climb inside of them for a rake. Angela was convinced that the carvings on the sides of the temples were about ten years old, and I have to say I was inclined to agree: they did look suspiciously new and appeared to be on rocks of a completely different shade to those of the rest of the temples. Still, it was really beautiful. We only arrived an hour before closing, which meant it was nearly empty, cool and quiet.  The time restriction also meant we didn't have to pretend to be so intellectual that we enjoyed staring at old rocks for more than 45 minutes.

Afterwards we walked back into town, where we did the usual beer in a plaza, followed by dinner, followed by period drama and then sleep. We have been pretty skint of late, but I had fallen into some birthday money, so we went to a fancy place. It was AMAZING. We had sparkling wine, non bean based food, and there was not a taco in sight. It was genuinely lovely to be somewhere with flowers, table service and loads of posh crockery. I know that sounds gross in a third world country, but it was nice for a treat. Some people-who shall remain nameless- seem to think that I spend all my time swanning about Michelin restaurants, but I don't.  When we do (occasionally) go out for "nice" food, we tend to get it horribly wrong, so this was a jolly turn up. Sadly we had made a spontaneous decision to mingle with the rich and famous, so were clad in our usual macintoshes, dirty torn breeks and general air of 1997.  The table adjacent to us was full of "execs", and we looked genuinely out of place. I also fell down a flight of stairs (before the Asti Spumeti) but it was fine- only three really handsome men saw. That fall was NOTHING in comparison to the one I had suffered the day before. We went to see Hierve el Agua, which is this waterfall made of limestone, overlooked by some natural springs. We drove up with these two guys we met at the station, one who was Brazilian, and who we kindly nicknamed The Anomaly because he was 6 ft 4 and had ginger hair, and another we called Che, because he was handsome, Latino and we have no imaginations.  Anyway, the petrified waterfall was pretty boring. The drive up was stunning, but we had chosen to sit in the back of the pickup... It was incredibly bumpy and windy and unfortunately I was facing Che... As Angela kindly pointed out to me - only a fool fixes their hair in the wind. I'm quite sure she would have fallen into the pitfall too, had she not been trying to stop her spinal column from collapsing due to the fact we were going over a dirt track at 158 miles an hour (approximation). Anyway, when we arrived, Che went off to do something manly, The Anomaly went to (in his own words) "watch the kids in the pool", and me and Angela gave it a cursory look (meh) before throwing ourselves down by the pools.  When we first arrived it was mainly empty, except for some sad sacks who were taking pictures of themselves in "hilarious" poses. It didn't take long however, before a bus load of cool and attractive Europeans arrived. They donned bikinis, and threw themselves into the pools with gay abandon. I was sitting on a rock complaining about the freezing conditions, clad, as usual in my thermals. I began to ponder to Angela why it was that these physically similar individuals, of a similar age and geographical origin, should manage to travel in a style so infinitely more stylish to that of our own. It was then that Angela noted that actually, if you didn't know me, you might think I was quite cool as well- I had the trousers which were actually pyjamas, the birdsnest hair, the nose ring. Yes, I pondered to myself. Perhaps you're right and I am as cool as these bronzed individuals, frolicking in the water with their rolly ups. That's when I happened to drop my water bottle. It began a slow descent, down the rocks and into the water. Foreseeing a terrible Having To Ask For Help In Spanish moment unless I caught it, I leapt to my feet, scampered down the steep side of the rocks and predictable slipped. Not in an quiet, unnoticeable way, but in a baby elephant, body slamming her backside into the hard stone, and landing half in the water way. All the while in a red, small boys macintosh. The crowd fell silent, and nobody laughed which made it 6284% worse. I snickered and shuffled up the slope, the arse completely torn out of my breeks and feeling like if been in a car crash, emotionally at least. Angela was the colour of a ripe tomato, and looked like she was going to cry. I don't even want to think what colour I was. We didn't stay long- but luckily it turned out the cool Europeans were staying at the same hostel as us. So that was comforting. 


We bought a lot of nice crafts in Oaxaxa as well. The town is where all the famous metal hearts come from- the red ones with squiggly silver metal around them- so we got loads of those. My mam had asked for a traditional mexican skirt. They are made of velvet, and hand-embroidered with roses and leaves, with delicate silver and gold threading round the border. Really beautiful, though I'm not sure where one would wear it in the real world. I didn't get her one anyway, as they cost £150. This means they actually probably cost £20 but my bargaining skills are so abysmal that I can't seem to bring things down by more than a few pesos. 

We also tried mole, which I've heard loads about. It's chocolate and chilli, and they make it with chicken usually. It was ok, but nothing I've not had before. Dave and Debs once made me a chocolate lamb shank, which was the best thing ever, and I think it was the same sort of thing. Lamb will always trump chicken. 

Anyway, that was Oaxaxa. At the moment we are supposed to be at the beach in Tulum sipping cocktails and reading books. The reality is different. Of course. It's pouring with rain, we are damp and cross, and the hostel is actually quite far from the beach. Lonely Planet described it as a lovely little town and its not really, appearing remarkably like a sad wee tourist trap at low season (which is what it is). Angela's mam and aunties are here, and it's such a shame they have had such awful weather. Plus, they are in their late fifties, and maybe not really appreciating the hostel life. We had a walk on the beach this morning- its very bonny, with white sand and sea the colour of a blue ice pop; it looks utterly synthetic.  It was muggy but dry for the hour or so we were on it, and I imagine its stunning in the sun. The benefit to the crap weather is we had it largely to ourselves. We also did have three wonderful days on Isla Mujeres. Again, the weather was a wee bit rubbish, but not as bad, so we were able to swim and lie on the (albeit gloomy) beach. We took lots of tasty food, and the beach house we rented was idyllic. A really beautiful old hacienda, with spacious rooms and lots of nice soft furnishings to fling yourself into when the deck chairs got uncomfortable. I wish we had stayed there, but never mind. Home to DF tomorrow, and I'm actually looking forward to getting back.  Back to our own flat and then back to work monday. Ah well. 

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Corpses and root canals

We are in Guanajuato, a small town in the state of...Guanajuato. It's really quite incredibly beautiful, people are lovely and friendly, it's sunny... And I've got such bad toothache I want to stab myself. It's a five hour bus journey and Angela asked me repeatedly if I wanted to go to the dentist before we left; but no, no. I didn't want to delay the FUN. 

I've taken extremely strong pain killers, ibuprofen and paracetamol, so I feel a bit weird (is this real life?), but also still like the side of my face is being gnawed by dogs.  I think it's an infection, but I'm not sure because a) being a hypochondriac doesn't actually make you a medical expert, and b) its all sort of blended into one general blanket of pain, rather than me being able to specify the rogue tooth/teeth. I am angry with myself, angry with my dentist, and angry with Angela- for wandering around looking happy, without a care in the world. I vaguely remember what it was like not to hate life, but the fact she's living the dream right now, is hard for me. 

We got in last night and had a wander round the town. It's very European and full of tourists. It's really pretty and clean; that's probably why. Lots of plazas (sigh) with cafes and bars, and a massive palatial theatre in the centre, which all the teenagers hang out in. There are millions of sweetie shops (cruel at this time), and its built on lots of tunnels, so there are different levels to the town which makes it feel unusual and quaint, though at the same time it reminds me of somewhere Hannibal Lector would lurk- being suave whilst painting Rembrandt copies and eating kids tongues.  The town is surrounded by hills filled with a riot of brightly coloured houses. Not for the first time, I note that Latin American rainbow-hued, raggle taggle houses, are much more aesthetically pleasing than the driech grey ones we have at home. 

We sat outside for ages in the evening, which you can't do in DF because of the torrential rain. It was (almost) blissful; I tried to numb my pain with the classic combo of ibuprofen and alcohol. Namely Micheladas, which are a mixture of clam juice, tomatoes, chile, salt and lime, into which you pour a beer. Kind of like a spicy, alcoholic soup, and I LOVE it. It did work a bit,  so we were able to walk about more- without my constant complaining tipping Angela over the edge.  We came back to the hostel at about ten, whereupon I crawled into bed and proceeded to watch the entire series of BBC North and South, in a pharmaceutical haze.  I forgot how much I love Richard Armitage. Maybe even more than Mr Darcy.  

Today was odd. We ate our way round the block in the am, and then went to look for the 'Museum of Mummies' which is quite famous (infamous?) It's a museum of corpses that they dug up decades ago to make space in the overcrowded graveyard.  When they had dug them up, they discovered that the bodies were mummified, so decided to make them into an exhibition. As you do. It's really creepy and macabre. There is an entire room for corpse babies, and around 50 or 60 adults just hanging about in glass capsules. They didn't even look that Mummyish- more skeletony with a hint of flesh if you ask me. It felt pretty wrong to be there, but not so wrong that we didn't poke our way through the whole place, occasionally sniggering at the inappropriate positions of the corpses, or of an occasional funny faced one. I did have a sort of sick feeling though, which might have been guilt. I certainly wouldn't want somebody taking a photo for their Facebook profile using my dead loved ones as a backdrop. How long does someone have to be dead for before its ok to take a photo of their decomposed body? Really weird. But, yes, we went- so I will try not to moralise about it too much. It was also about 86% more interesting than the anthropology museum of last month. Morally I can't really recommend it, but....

This entry came to an abrupt end, as the pain got so bad we had to take a bus back to DF. I found some tramadol (which is my new best friend) and booked an appointment. What followed was beyond awful. ROOT CANAL WORK. I'm sorry if I flame the neurosis of anyone scared of the dentist, but it is agony. I was crying even more than when I saw Brokeback Mountain in the middle of my finals. She injected me with TWELVE ANAESTHETICS, which she reassuringly told me weren't working because I was "bleeding too much". I have never thought of myself as stoic and now I know I'm not. I had half of it done, and for the sake of both our nerves she decided to save the other half for Saturday*. That's tomorrow. I'm trying not to get myself into some kind of web of despair but the idea of going back into that chair is possibly the last thing on earth I would want to do. If some would offer to do an Oor Wullie style extraction, using a brick, some twine and maybe a few stiff brandies, I would be totally up for it. As it is I am comforting myself with the idea of how to celebrate the ascension of non pain on Sunday. It mainly involves food: we are going away for two weeks, so having a cupboard party, which involves making dinner using all the weird leftovers in our cupboards. I sense a bean theme, with some kind of herbal tea coulis. And garlic. Oh so much garlic. And tequila that cost £2. I like things like that, and I hope we can think of some interesting things. 

*As a sub note to this entry (which has been languishing in my drafts box for weeks) let me just tell you it was NOT the second of two sessions, it was the second of six. Our travel plans were subsequently cancelled or delayed, and I spent a grand total of 20 hours having that nasty tooth seen to, as well as the other fillings. The dentist - or my pal Esme as I know her now- had tears in her eyes as I bid her farewell, and I realised today that she is probably my closest Mexican friend. Every cloud...I was also pleased to discover that once the initial infection went down, the aesthetic kicked in, and it was not like medieval torture. The day she accidentally drilled through the bone was a treat, but otherwise it was a relative joy after that initial session. I hope any dentaphobes (or whatever the word is) are comforted by this. Remember- antibiotics are your friends. This is a photo of Angela- we celebrated my dental success with a bottle of sugary and carbonated alcohol. Hmmm. 

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Animal farm

I'm sitting on a very bumpy plane, on the way back to DF with a very sore arm. It hurts because I've had a lump removed from it, and three stitches put in. Shaddy's dad is a surgeon, and he gouged it out yesterday. During the night, I predictably bled all through my bandage, and subsequently, their exquisite needlepoint duvet.  I wasn't entirely clear on how to confess to it in Spanish, so asked Shaddy to do it for me. Inevitably he will forget, and so, soon, they will think I'm a complete minger as well as a chancer (always on the look out for discounted/free medical attention on THIS trip).  The Dad said the lump was probably a cyst, but I believe it was a calcified mosquito bite from my time in Australia. I also tried to poke it out with scissors circa 2010, so that may have explained the thick scar tissue.  In a lovely coincidence, Shaddy was able to have a corresponding operation; a cyst removed from his testicle. I am not over-sharing this information without regard for his privacy or feelings; he had a picture of his pants around his ankles on Facebook, detailing the event. He eagerly watched my procedure (strangely not offering that I watch reciprocally during his), but though he started off mildly interested in my discomfort, he looked less chipper towards the end, as his dad pulverised and kneaded something the size of a raisin out of my arm. I was in the joyful clasp of my old pal General Anaesthetic, and felt nothing bar a strange tugging which was not pleasant but not even in the same league as The Root Canal Episode. Shaddy kindly filmed the first part (till he got too self reflective about what was to come), but all I could focus on when I saw it, was how fat my arm looked under the glare of the operating light.  

What a nice family.  Juarez itself is a total dump, but as is so often the case- it's the people that colour your perception, and once again I've been thoroughly spoiled. They were kind, warm and generous; despite my dullard Spanglish ways, the fact I slept for about 75% of my visit, and the terror I had of their dogs (more to this later). It was interesting to visit somewhere utterly uninterested (or rather ill equipped!) in courting tourists, and I was genuinely interested by its location and relationship to the USA, it's history,  and its current political climate. 

It's was a lovely few days despite a few things, alluded to above. The immigration stuff I already mentioned earlier. I don't really do political analytical prose very well, but I was really horrified by it. I was especially shocked by the way the border control worked in such a one way manner. Juarez is famous to most people, for not only being one of the most dangerous cities in the world (sorry mam) but also for the disappearance of literally hundreds of young girls. Maybe it's one of the bloody Americans who can just swan through without any kind of notification, or record of their entry?! 

The reputation of the city itself presented me with a sense of foreboding - not to mention discomfort regarding my own dishonesty in not telling anyone back home that I was going. Matt and Angela asked me not to, students warned me against it, and I knew everyone at home wouldn't like it one bit if they knew.... All on all it was very sleekit of me to go, and it put a damper on the trip itself. Despite the fact I can be a little lying cat at times, I never really manage to ignore my badness, and I felt horribly guilty and desperate "to 'fess to marmee" as Jo March would say. I had awful anxiety dreams, and generally peed myself every time a car so much as backfired. The city has been on the news all over the world this week again, because of a female murderer; they are calling her a vigilante killer, a crazed blonde, who is seeking vengeance for the lost women of Juarez by killing bus drivers (unsure of what links them).

Despite all this, it was of course all fine; the family lived in a safe house, with locked gates and a massive Alsatian- who was somewhat ironically the main source of my only injury and terror. What a nasty dog. Shaddy, if you ever read this, I'm very sorry for badmouthing any part of your lovely domestic situation, but that dog is a horror story of the highest degree.  When I first arrived, he allowed me an initial degree of complacency- even presenting a favourable comparison to the 4 yappy little dogs who were scampering about manically. He let me stroke him, throw a rubber chicken about... All the classic dog bonding stuff. Day two however, saw me modelling a new dress (from Texas no less), the orange tones of which must have enraged him, as he went for me on the way out the door, tearing my dress, breeks and the skin off my leg in the process. I am NOT scared of dogs (perhaps that should be WASN'T), nor was I petting him or "annoying him" as one or two unsympathetic friends have suggested. He just went for me for no reason, and had to be forcibly restrained. Over the course of the next few days, he alternated between wary acceptance, and outright hostility. This morning he nipped my arse, and chased me up the stairs, which genuinely made me almost faint- the only reason this (albeit common) embarrassment was averted, was because I went into the toilet and lay on the cool tiles. It wasn't playing, it was aggression, and it was focused.  In fact, all the dogs hated me. It made me feel a bit serial killer-esque, as they seemed to sense some kind of evil in their midst.  The more they barked/growled/bit the more I sweated and fidgeted. Shaddy helpfully told me that even he could smell my fear, but it's all very well to know that this is a stupid way to be with dogs, quite another to be able to suddenly not be scared.  I have a sad track record with dogs abroad.  I had to fly home emergency (with corresponding costs) when I was in Ghana, when a kid threw a puppy at me. My own rarely dormant hypochondria, added to that of my mother and aunt, saw me having post exposure rabies treatment at the Centre for Infectious Diseases in London, 24 hours later. ( I was also bitten in India, but chose to risk death by rabies rather than the resulting teasing I knew would ensue if I let my neurosis take over again). Anyway, this time it WASN'T anything to do with me petting or poking or any cute stuff with these dogs. I was blameless. 

The demise of the dress was the reason we went to Texas for the second time. It's my first experience of America, and it was largely what I expected. El Paso itself, is only marginally less ugly than Juarez. We went to a mall, and the shop assistants were lovely, if terrifying in their focused pursuit of a sale. We went into the most ghastly shop imaginable (it was "totally me" apparently...) full of cardigans that looked like they were made by the blind, and skirts that the Amish would reject for being too dour. I was thrilled by the idea of being personified by this particular store, and even more so by the honey eyed gal, who came over to force me into a changing room with loads of monstrosities that were just "so me". For some reason, only known to my deep subconscious, I felt obliged to not only go into the changing room, but to actually try the garments on. The fact they suited me was the most crushing part of all. I then felt I had to go and explain to her that I didn't have time to try them on properly (lies), but thanks for her kindness. She looked saddened by my rejection, but said "have a good day y'all" which thrilled me.  I ended up buying the ill fated orange dress again, which was from the Jessica Simpson range (who knew?!) and clearly aimed at lithe teenagers. It has gold cut outs on it. Hmmm.  

Everyone in Texas was petty fat. I know the people of Scotland aren't exactly svelte, and that the "Americans are a little chubby" shtick is a bit old, but I was kind of taken aback despite the forewarning. We went to Starbucks and I had a Reece's peanut chocolate chip cookie. Perhaps we should say there but for the grace of god go I. It was divine beyond description.  

The USA has never interested me as a destination; it's too similar culturally to home, and I do have a bad attitude towards it, largely due to information from South Park. It was a nice day, and a total pleasure to be able to FREELY COMMUNICATE, but I am in no great rush to return. Somewhat ironically I kept talking Spanish to people. I imagine a few months of looking like a pretentious twerp will follow my return home, as I answer gracias to everyone, and shriek que bueno! At the slightest encouragement. 

The plane has just landed. It's pouring with rain, apparently the metro is flooded, and I don't know how to get home. On that upbeat note I best skedaddle. 

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Being Mexican

I have gone to stay with Shaddy's family in Juarez. At this moment, I am in a dodgy holding area, with loads of Mexicans, who, like myself, have been stopped at the border, trying to cross into El Paso. Two days ago, I was free to saunter across with ease, but the jobsworth/ responsible border patrol member (whichever way you chose to see it), noticed today that whilst I have a visa waiver program thing (an ESTA) I don't have an actual visa. Apparently. I don't understand the difference, and thought smiling blithely and repeatedly saying "it was fine two days ago" would suffice. It didn't, so here I am. Trying  to flirt your way out of a situation- only to fail- is somewhat crushing. Especially in Latin America. 

Watching how the fat, rude, jumped up little arses treat the Mexicans who are waiting here, is a sad insight into what I already knew THE WEST IS MEAN TO IMMIGRANTS!!!!  Shockeroo. It's surprised and saddened me to realise however, that the ones who are being the least pleasant, appear to be Mexican themselves. Why this is I, I do not know, but it's sad. 

Earlier I went to pee, and was delighted to find that there are no toilet doors on any of the stalls. Perhaps this is something that happens in all immigration spaces, but I somehow can't see it happening much in Canada for example. I know there are worse things, but having to do the toilet watched by other people is about as demoralising as it gets.  I couldn't compare vice versa, as there isn't a border control for the other way; there is NO control over who enters Mexico, and as many gringos as want to can flock through, regardless of criminal history, financial situation or ability or willingness to wait for hours in a cramped little room manned by rude staff (only 2 here just now).  Even the system of waiting is stupid and designed to make you uncomfortable. Instead of being given a number or ticket to be seen, you just sit in a seat at the end of the line. Every time someone gets up to talk to a grim faced attendant, you all move up a seat. This is great for all the old folk and people with bairns. The whole thing seemed designed to make everyone feel like crap, and it worked on me. Even the fact I feel crap is making me feel crap, as everyone else is sitting quietly, whilst I moan in a shrill voice about the "conditions".  This is not a nice way to spend an afternoon.*

*After two hours we were free to enter America.  Shaddy had said "you'll be fine because you're white." And I was. We paid the extra visa bit, whilst the man apologised that I had had to wait so long, and eventually we trotted off to buy some $20 books, and flounce around air conditioned malls. I had the decency to feel bad about it. 

Negligent brothers and Puebla

I am sitting in the front of our house in the sun. I've just had a LOVELY chat with Boo who is back from India. He had limited travel stories, other than the fact he stayed in a houseboat someone got murdered in, but it was still great to hear him. We haven't spoken since Colombia, as he is almost as crap at contact as Danny, who last time we spoke asked me if I was having a nice time in Africa. 

Today I have a massive chunk of time off, so me and matt are going to a famous bookstore cafe/library to ogle books and cakes, two of my best guys. Aunty Babbitt recommended it to me, and it looks fab http://pendulo.com/ .

I have actually found a lot of excellent (and cheap) second hand bookstores here, near to our house, but it will be nice to look at some new ones, and smell their smell.  I've not done much reading recently, as with my two friends I have QUITE the social calendar. Me and Angela both read a book called 'The Gathering', by Anne Enright.  We agreed it was extraordinary (and we are both Very Clever English Lit Graduates, so...) It's tells the story of a woman who's brother has died, and charts the days leading up to the funeral. It's a well constructed (if predictable) plot, but it's her use of language that is incredible. It's that amazing and rare mix of being lyrical and unusual without making you feel thick. She writes everything in a way that is hauntingly beautiful, but you feel like she just wrote it, rather than sat trying to write with the words "hauntingly beautiful" taped across her dictionary.  It's really melancholy as well, which all the best books are. It's wonderful and I recommend it.

I am also trying to read 'Just William' in Spanish. William books are my ultimate favourites, and I thought it would be an incentive to learning a bit of Spanish.  It is not. I just get frustrated at all the hilarity I'm missing, and have a suspicion it's not very translatable anyway. William is SO English, I can't really compute the idea of him saying "wot I mean to say is that ole woman is jolly well gon' ter give it back to us" in Spanish, or it being very funny if he did. Still, I've always got the pictures.  

Today is my last day teaching for a few weeks. After a strenuous two months of working 4 hours a day, we are going on holiday. It's a hard life. The plan is to lurk about DF for a few days then head out to some of the neighbouring areas around the city. Guanajuato, which is meant to be a beautiful old town (UNESCO heritage site innit), and San Miguel de Allende, which sounds a bit boring but looks very pretty.  We are going to maybe go to Taxco, which is a silver town but not sure.  I hate looking at stuff there is no chance of you actually buying. I never understand that.  When skint people go and browse in Gucci for example, when they only have £17. What's the point? It will only end in sadness and Primark. 

The week after we are going to Oaxaxa, and then to Cancun with Angela's mam, who is coming over for a holiday. I am really looking forward to it, as I am getting a bit sick of DF. I still love it, but the commute to work is ridiculous.  Thats bad enough, but if we want to meet friends in the evening, it's like a military operation. One which usually ends in abandonment, as we slump in front of youtube watching TV dramas from the mid 90s. (Band of Gold anyone? HIYA best gritty, prostitute drama, EVER!!). When we come back, I am going to look for some work closer to the house. Less 5.30 starts, more popping home for lunch. Yes. Better. 

Last weekend I went on a small trip with the boy I'm seeing. I wasn't going to mention him, but mum says I could do with some positive PR, as apparently I come across as a "loser" in this blog. No doubt it will end in tears, being that he is from Mexico and I am from Scotland, but he's lovely and I am really enjoying spending time with him. Lest I start to remind you of Liz Jones from the Daily Mail, lets leave it at that. 

He took me to visit his cousins who live in Puebla. When we arrived I wanted to kill him, as the mum had just had a baby (three weeks old!) and was visibly exhausted. They didn't speak any English, and I was pretty anxious. However they were exceptionally warm, and I was made to feel so welcome that I had a fantastic weekend. I spanglished my way through ok, with a lot of nodding and smiling, and gurgling at the baby. Children are such an amazing thing to have when you've got nothing to say, and they provide endless opportunities for non verbal communication. They fed me some of the best food I've had on this whole trip, and were just utterly kind. I tried a thing called Chiles in Nogada http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiles_en_nogada

Which was maybe one of the tastiest dishes I've ever had. Meat, pomegranate, chilli and cream. All the hits. 

Other than stuffing our faces, we wandered the town, which was very pretty, and went out to Cholula, which has some ancient pyramids and a really bonny church at the top of a huge hill. It was a really nice little trip, but I do feel I've reached saturation point regarding "quintessentially colonial plazas" and "unmissable churches".  I don't think I ever liked churches that much, and now I've seen 4827 I certainly don't. They are nice and peaceful, and probably lovely if you are religious, but Catholic Churches do tend to have a lot of scary pictures of hell and torture and so on, and I am a bit afraid of Satan, so they make me anxious.  The ruins were ok, but they were closed (for refurbishment maybe?) so you couldn't see them all. I gather they are really impressive in general, but they weren't at their best. I may have compared them unfavourably to the Culswick Broch a few times, but they were still interesting to see. 

We spent Sunday being stuffed with food (again), and I met more cousins and in laws, who were also very nice, except when they referred to me as the giantess. I'm not sure I translated it perfectly, but I believe that was the gist. 

Puebla is allegedly 1- 2 hours from DF, but this-as usual when it comes to lonely planet- is a lie. More like double that, so you wouldn't really be arsed to go for a day trip. 

I got back to a dental appointment where she was to check my teeth.  I was horrified to find out I need NINE fillings in total. I am genuinely embarrassed to write that down, but I am also really in a state of shock. I brush my teeth (properly) at least twice a day, and don't eat sweeties that much. I've never had a filling before and suddenly I need NINE? She had already done three so I've got another six to go. I'm slightly sceptical as she obviously gets paid per filling; but I also know its £30 a tooth here (for nice white ones made of composite) as opposed to about £200 at home. The colonial racist in me is worried she is scamming me, or possibly filling them with ground chalk and PVA, but I have decided to just go with it. 

She's halfway through now, and I have to say I really like her. She's sweet ", and she never shuts up, even when I've got cotton wool and a drill in my mouth. She has curly dark hair that falls everywhere, and her makeup is so thick that when she puts on, her white mask instantly gets a bright orange rim round it.  She puts on the radio far too loud and wears rings and bangles that get caught on my clothes and hair. I think, if I was 40, Mexican, and a dentist, there is a chance I would actually be her, so I sort of feel like she's not being a shady trickster. Rather, I think I've just committed a massive boo boo by not visiting a dentist for 3 years, and having a diet similar to that of a feral monkey. 

I have an appointment with her tomorrow, which I didn't know about and have invited people over for roast dinner; including the boy. As the general anaesthetic makes me slack jawed, weird and even more vacant than usual, I will probably have been dumped by the time you read this. 

I am going to go now, I have a couple of hours before I meet Matt and am going to put on some shorts, slather my legs in baby oil and watch more Band of Gold in the sun. Besos xxx

Nice things wot I have seen

Dental Woes and Dry Hair.

I'm sitting on the train on the way to work. The sun is rising over the mountains, and it's a crisp clear sky. I have almost forgotten that I hate my job, and mornings, so captured by the rosy fingers of dawn am I.  It's all relative, and after two weeks of ill health, I feel quite fond of the trip, mainly because I have made it without a part of my body falling off/malfunctioning, or without having to rest after a particularly daunting set of escalators.  Ill health (mild). Where to start. Well. First of all, my tooth fell out. And not in a "popping a bottle of beer at a raging party, using my white and shiny molar" way; but in an "eating some cornflakes when half your blackened, decayed fang crumbles into the milk" way. Absolutely rank. Had a complete nervous breakdown and phoned mam (error number one), who said it looked like I had "rampant gum disease", and was about to lose all my teeth. Had to hang up, lie down, and try to stop picturing self as some kind of facially caved in hag. Tried- failed and sobbed indulgently on the sofa for about three hours, before trawling the internet for dentists. After corresponding with several apparently insane dentists, and several amazing ones who cost a bazillion pesos, I ended up getting a recommendation from a student.  The following day saw me in some kind of strange ghetto, looking for a dental surgery, which turned out to disguised as a cupboard in a dirty alley, and smelled like cat litter. 

It was no better or worse than the surroundings would have suggested. He poked in my mouth with questionably clean instruments, which he wiped down on his grimy (and inappropriately named) whites, as he babbled in medical Spanish. With the use of mime and illustration, we established I did not have gum disease, and was not losing all my teeth. I did however have a "muy mal" cavity and needed either a crown or a filler. Thus followed several days of very badly translated, dental documents, tearful skypes with my dads partner (who is a dentist), and the discovery that my declining teeth were thanks (probably) to my little stint in Colombia, where I ate approximately 42 sugar mangos a day. (Sugar mangos- the same as regular mangos but SWEETER...)

I dinghied the dodgy dentist, and got myself another one. The way I acquired her is quite roundabout and also odd. The bare bones of it is Angela was seeing a Mexican boy before I came, who seemed to blame the demise of their relationship on my arrival. The one and only time I met him, he said that it was funny how misleading photos could be. I had looked like quite a nice person IN MY PHOTOS. But I WASN'T in real life. Hah. Anyway, it's his dentist. She seems good, but I'm waiting for the day when my tooth drilling is interrupted by the scorned hombre, wielding dental floss in a threatening manner. The dentist is under the illusion we are great friends and I haven't known how to tell her otherwise. Anyway, I've had some weird polly filler stuff in my tooth all week, and today find out if I can just get a filling, or if a crown is in order. Fingers crossed. 

On top of the toothache, I had some horrible stomach thing, followed by a chest infection. I was inhaling antibiotics like there was no tomorrow, and now I seem to be coming out of the dark place. Lucky for me, more lucky for Angela. Because of this, I've literally done nothing for a fortnight, except crawl from work- to bed-to work again. I have manage to obliterate me and Angela's carefully constructed budget by missing almost a week of work, and spending vast sums of money downloading music from my youth, with which to curb the anxiety of being on my own in the house for more than 17 minutes. 

I am of course exaggerating, and in amongst the falling teeth and phlegm, there have been some nice things too. 

We went to The Blue House, home of Frida Khalo and Diego Riviera. It was lovely. We accidentally went on Fridas birthday, which meant it was a bit packed- but what a beautiful house! 

The exhibition of her stuff was nice, but I believe she didn't do a huge amount of paintings, so there wasn't much there. Far better for, me was drooling over her soft furnishings. I tried to take some photos for future inspiration, but got a row from an aggressive security woman.  I will just have to try to reconstruct her dreamy kitchen from memory, if I ever become a real adult with a house. 

We also went to the national anthropology museum, which is really famous for being great and informative etc etc. I think I missed something because it almost made me weep with boredom. 

It was pretty much just pots. Hundreds of pots, with some gold, and some stuff made of sticks thrown in for good measure. Even the codexes which I was really looking forward to, looked like they were cut out from the back of an 80's Beano. And it needed a good dusting. 

I had forced Angela to go because I "love museums", so for the first hour I had to feign interest in the crockery.  After an hour or so however, my desire to sprawl in a plaza eating tacos outweighed my desire to never be wrong, and I slithered off to lie in the sun whilst Angela and Matt looked at chipped cups for another hour.

I am not saying the museum commonly held to be the best in Latin America is rubbish, just that it wasn't doing much for me. I acknowledge that my inability to read Spanish, my lack of brain power and what seems to be a general indifference to anything that isn't relating to myself, probably contributed to the disillusionment, but it wasn't that great in my opinion. Sorry Mexico. 

The most thought provoking part of the day for me (and I use the term loosely) was my time in the sun, where I was given the opportunity to ponder the Mexican propensity for PDOAs. Public Displays of Affection are a daily part of life here. I fluctuate between thinking its romantic, and wanting to cheese grate my eyeballs off. It does make me realise what a repressed nation of prudes the British are, but whether I really think that's a bad thing I'm not sure. Even the over fifties do it here; full on snogging on the subway, cheeky gropes on the bus or persistent if gentle mauling in the park. Yes, that's ageist, but I'm not saying its worse from the elderly, just weirder. Mexicans seem to think British people are cold and sexless in our interpersonal relations (except when drunk), which I can also see to be a valid assessment. All I know is I spend a lot of time feeling hot and bothered when I'm on public transport. I never know where to look. Probably the answer is not "straight at them with a bright red face and a twitching jaw", but never mind. I need to work on my nonchalant face more, something I have thought before. I am too expressive, like a massive, shocked baby. 

Yesterday we went to a craft market in San Miguel. It was great. There was a square full of art which consisted of approximately 572849 paintings of women with their breasts out, or horses. Sometimes one or the other, sometimes both. There was a rare sighting to be had of abstract vases of flowers, but these were few and far between, and generally pushed to the back to give the breasts and horses greater platform.  I laughed a lot which understandably went down quite badly. 

There was also a performance of sorts consisting of the most beautiful peerie lasses with huge tropical flowers all over their head, dancing about with big white skirts on.  Later I was forced to watch an unintentionally hilarious "sword fight", where lots of tragic middle aged men poked each other with sticks whilst wearing bee keeper masks. 

The craft market was better; loads of cakes, bonkers jewelery, skeletons covered in glitter and pictures of famous Mexicans with light bulbs and bobbles coming out their foreheads. A student told me that Mexico was where the word kitsch originated from. I'm not sure this is true (India seems a contender too), but its certainly one of the team captains. I love it. 

Angela got hilariously ripped off buying some matchboxes with pictures of Mexican wrestlers on them, the purchase of which was accompanied by my haranguing insistence that "I could make you one of those. For FREE", which seemed to delight her almost as much as it did the shopkeeper.  I bought some embroidery to give as presents back home. I've decided as I've got about three more months, I better start now so I don't get to the last week and realise I have 84 sequinned frijoles to buy.  

The "I could make that" gene seems to be strong in both of us, as our house now resembles some kind of camp, Santa's grotto, full of homemade piñatas, clay moveable skeletons and other questionable "art works", that are certainly influenced (if nothing more) by the real Mexican versions which we are too tight to pay for.  I'd be being insincere if I didn't say we've made the house rather homely though. We have a couple of pals who are boys, who just come round (to get fed usually) and wistfully gaze at all the pleasant touches, which men seem so incapable of introducing into their own homes (sorry for sweeping gender assumptions but its true). The twitching cockroaches sometimes ruin the vision of domestic bliss which is irritating, as too is the pervading odour of damp shoes. Nonetheless, we get by in a
vaguely Kirsty Aslopp-like manner.

Anyway, I had better to and do some lesson plans. Last week I had a class on physical descriptions. The workbook suggested I get the class to describe each other, which I thought was naive at best, and that I would save some of them the pain of being described accurately by nominating myself instead. I smiled modestly (with just the right hint of acceptance) when I was described as "beautiful" and "young" by one creeping sook, but was soon brought crashing to earth by a gimlet eyed youth who described me as "on the heavy side" with "dry hair". In future I am determined to bring more visual aids to class. Let them describe Bradd Pitt next time. I will know better. 

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Gay Pride Mexico

Gay times and Grey times DF,

This morning was horrid. Me and Angela were disgusting pigs yesterday, and filled the void our hangovers had created, with a steady stream of calorific goods. Consequently, today I woke up with an aching stomach, after horrible dreams and a restless night thinking about the semi raw gingerbread we had stuffed into our faces just before bed. My £1/potentially stolen headphones stopped working halfway through my journey, so I literally ripped them apart, in a fit of rage- much to the alarm of the other people on the platform. I was hobbling like a pirate, as usual- on what remains of my feet after this trip. Angela and I have three pairs of shoes between us; shoes in various states of disrepair that fit neither of us, little alone make us look like we might be responsible for the education of others. I have given up feigning professionalism or style, and taken to wearing flip-flops and letting my slashed toes breath freely. I make sure though, that every time they begin to heal, I reapply the slippers of Bogota agony again in order to lacerate them further, for optimum discomfort. Today was a flipflop day, but the scars from the weekend remain. 

I also drank my usual litre of coffee before leaving the house, so spent the latter half of my trip, on a journey of a separate and more personal nature, going from mild discomfort to utter horror, in terms of how much I needed to pee. I still haven't been, but am now at least sitting down, waiting in the wee security man's room for the class to turn up. It's extremely rude that I'm perched on his sofa, on my phone, ignoring him, but we both look secretly relieved that there is to be no excruciating exchange of Spanglish. 

Despite the fact I seem to have nothing good to say about this morning, I did have a fantastic day at Gay Pride on Saturday. I was woken early by the dulcet tones of YMCA, blasting through my ears courtesy of Angela, who loves to subvert cliché if nothing else. I crawled out of bed to a breakfast of cereal accompanied by rum coffee made with condensed milk. It was a sign of things to come, but we naively sipped our delicious beverage whilst applying glitter to our jolly faces. Can I recommend it as maybe the best thing I've ever drunk. It had about half a tin of condensed milk in it, and 4 spoons of sugar, so no great shakes for the bikini body, but as we know, that ship sailed about six months and 739829 tortillas ago.

We were a bit worried about finding the parade, as we'd heard different information about its starting location. Needn't have feared, as the semi naked men in chaps and bondage gear, gave us a wee clue as to what direction to take. Saying that we did initially get a bit lost, after following a wild goose trail of camp youths in skinny jeans (which served us right for being presumptuous).

It was such a brilliant parade. Fantastic atmosphere and lots of fabby costumes. Me and Angela were photographed about a million times; I thought it was because we were being perceived as mildly Nordic, lesbian totty, until Angela pointed out that our towering frames, massive hands and generous use of lynx deodorant, meant that it was more likely they thought we were transvestites. I simpered less after that, and I think there were probably a few photos of me looking less than pleased despite the feathers. I also got in a bit of a verbal spat with a wee nearly naked guy, who kept calling me "a fat beetch" and poking my stomach. I think (hope) it was meant to be funny but I got in a befuddled huff like a distressed and bated bear. I got flashbacks to sports day at school; mid forward roll, flailing, and in leggings that were too small. Other than that, it was a conflict free day.  Despite my anxiety that the police would kettle us in a display of catholic machismo, they didn't, and all was well. (Hiya sweepingly judgemental Gabs. good to have you back.) Yes, the whole thing had an utterly delightful atmosphere, with a mixture of men, women and kids (albeit mainly looking suicidal, whist their mums did Right-On stuff). A really nice day out. I won't claim it was the most sophisticated of affairs, but we had a massive late lunch (or four) and my desire to party like it was 1999 turned more into lying on a sofa at matts, stuffing pork tortillas into my face and updating my Facebook. Hmmm. 

Still; we managed to have a jolly wheeze of a day anyway, and I was secretly relieved that we didn't have to go on the predicted wild night out with all our new, topless, teenage-boy pals.  Instead we caught the train home at about 10, after eating a gordita- a deep fried tortilla whose name appropriately means, "small fatty". Oh. My. God. So good. Cheese and some other less relevant stuff, crammed into a tortilla and deep fried; then smothered in chilli sauce and yoghurt. Best end to a day out of all time. 

The weekends seem to be whizzing past in general. Today, as aforementioned has been horrid. I'm finding it so hard to get up at 5. Or, more accurately, to go to bed at a time that means I get up that early without wanting to stab someone. It's not me; I'm a night owl and late riser, whether from a natural indolence, or years of working in bars and restaurants, I'm not sure. It's a sad, wee, lonely morning walk too; still dark and cold, with crap street lighting, which makes my dozy stumbling even more dangerous. On the up-side (I'm trying), folk are nice at 5am. It breeds a kind of camaraderie I guess, so all the wee old men and women who are setting up stalls have started saying "Hola", and the guys who patrol the petrol station are always chatty. That cheers me up a bit I suppose.

I have already developed a revoltingly negligent attitude to the work itself, and do my lesson plans on the subway. This makes me feel awful as I'm usually taking up a seat of an old person carrying a sack of rags or something equally pitiful, but I know I have to do it, so I sit there like an evil cow until I finish.

The classes themselves are going ok.  Mainly through luck, and my ability to smile through ineptitude. I genuinely think there is something wrong with my brain in terms of basic intelligence. I realised today that I hadn't been taking registration for ANY of my classes, so had to spend about two hours straining to remember the names of all the students, whether they had attended and their levels of contribution. 93%of them seem to be called Jose Luis, but I'm pretty sure I've invented a Sergio, and left out some of the less memorable students. I can't believe it, and I'm extremely anxious about my boss reading the report. It could unravel the web of small "exaggerations" as to my capabilities. Not lies exactly; for example, I HAVE done private tuition; its just it was for Danny and the Molloy twins, and they learned nothing, bullied me, and only came for my constant supply of baked goods. I HAVE taught in a school in Ecuador too; it just happened to be for a fortnight, and mainly consisted of working on their website and batting my eyes at a German volunteer who was similarly occupied.  I HAVE looked after/helped educate lots of kids in Ghana, it's just they had no respect for me, treated me as an overgrown climbing frame, and called me Michael Jackson (in a manner which was not complimentary).

I just don't seem to have any common sense, or notion of the appropriate either. I had an interview the other day and told the guy that I didn't like teaching, and wouldn't do it if I had other options. He also looked at my shoes and asked if I had any other ones. I said no. (Incidentally I got the job, which says more about him than it does me).

I suppose if i'm brutally self-reflective, it's indicative of a lack of vested interest in general, which is dreadful. I would feel awful about it if it was kids, or long term, as there's nothing worse than a teacher who doesn't like teaching. In this case it's adults though, and most of my work is just coaching them and prattling to them about whatever subject we are doing, I think it's ok. Oddly I seem to be perceived as being quite reasonable at it, despite my many shortcomings. I suppose I'm not bad at thinking of creative things to do with them, and I also think a lot of tefl teachers are really young and shy, and a class full of latino men could be a bit overwhelming. The first day I was horrified, but I pretended to be un-phased, and gradually it's stopped actually scaring me in real life. They are nice students too which helps. But no, I fear teaching is not the path for me, though its not as bad as I thought it was going to be. They are all really keen to learn which is a blessing I recognise. I have a few little rats (aged approx 40), who talk over me constantly, and make asides that they think I can't hear (I can't understand them, but I hear them fine). This is surely karma for years and years of never shutting up when my poor teachers were trying to talk. I remember once being sent outside the class for the whole afternoon, by a teacher who was so angry she was spitting in rage. At the time I was utterly bewildered and couldn't believe that she was being so psychotic and unreasonable. Now I understand. Sorry Mrs Gonzalez of Christ Church School, Surbiton, Surrey. If nothing else, this job has taught me how much I deserved that day in the hallway, cold, confused and at that point, completely unrepentant.




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Coyoacan

Hiya Mexico!

Hello Mexico!

Here I am. Home in the bosom of the family unit. Oh, I cannot tell you what songs my little heart was singing, when I saw Angela's ole face looming over that of all the wee tiny Mexicans at the airport. My trip was horrid (of course), so I was ready for the contrast.

I know everyone prefers it when things go wrong for me, so I shall tell the arrival story before the good bits.

My flights were even more ridiculous than I first intimated. With my limited, and inaccurate knowledge of Geography, I didn't realise Bogota to Florida, to LA, to Mexico was quite so silly. It was, and it was rendered more so, by the nightmare that was BlueJet. If you ever get the opportunity to fly with them, I caution you to refrain. They were uber crap. Firstly, you don't even get food. You get a rubbish "snack", aka three crumpled pretzels. The seats are tiny, and the staff are rude. 

Our first flight to Florida was late, which meant that when we landed I had about half an hour to recheck my baggage and get to my next flight. When we descended I told the dimwit "managing" the queue, that my flight was about to leave, so could I perhaps go to the front? She didn't know, but thought not. Well, would the flight be held? Probably not, but she wasn't sure. How was she meant to know? It wasn't her fault, ok? 

Loads of the Colombians in the queue were on the same connection, and were spanglishing anxiously. I somehow became the spokesperson for the whole departure lounge, and went into imperious victim mode. I "demanded" (in a quivery voice, so does it count?) to know why the flight wasn't being held for us, seeing as nearly everyone here was supposed to be on it. I used all the classics;

"If you're not responsible, then I want to talk to who is" 

"I'd like to take you're name please. I'm very unhappy and intend to make a complaint."

"This is a joke" 

Etc, etc. Patronising, brusque and dogged in my pursuit of the objective, I was repellant and horrifying, but sadly this achieved results.  Our flight was held, although we were told to run through the entirety of the airport as fast as we could (not very), so I arrived at boarding sweaty and disgusting and looking less Erin Brokovitchy than I felt.  

I had promised to "take care", of a spotty youth behind me in the queue who was terrified and had zero English... Sadly however, he got taken into the scary room at customs, and my fighting-for-the-wee-guy streak, ran out and I scampered off without him. There is only so much of an airport martyr you can be. I felt bad, but not as bad as when the little nyaff at the desk said "chop chop! You're a lucky girl!", which I was too out of breath to respond to. 

When we eventually left for LA, it was about -17 degrees on the plane. I asked for a blanket, and the flight attendant who was stuffing his face with crisps, said that they didn't have any since "swine flu". He agreed(chomp-crunch) that it was chilly (munch-munch) but couldn't be of help (munch-crunch). I used to think my manager in the restaurant was being a fascist when he berated me for stuffing my face in front of customers, but it turns out it IS rude. Who knew.

The seconds part of the journey was another close shave, but entirely self inflicted this time, as I made an extremely bizarre comment whilst going through security, about hiding contraband in my hair.  I have NO idea why; I can only surmise that it was a hysterical response to a long day.  I always get really worried I accidentally take through nuclear explosives, or heroin, and in general can't help but scuttle through customs like a rolling eyed, sweaty crim, even though I'm not actually a smuggler or drugs baron in real life. 

Lucky for me the lass was lovely. She gave me a wry look, and quietly said, "you shouldn't make jokes like that sweetie" before patting down my hair in a gentle way, and shoving me off. I was almost crying with relief. 

Anyway, 24 hours after leaving Bogota, I arrived in Mexico City; a bedraggled, if euphoric mess. Angela had come to pick me up, and we draped ourselves over each other for about three hours, in delight at being reunited.

She has found us a peerie flat in the Coyoacan area, which is where Frida Kahlo lived. It's very arty (the area-NOT the flat), and has a lot of pretty cobbled streets and lovely bunting everywhere. The main square is about 20 minutes away and is full of little street vendors selling whimsical ware. I got my fortune read by a blue bird, a peerie fellow who hops out of his weathered box and selects paper fortunes for you! So beautiful, and much nicer than a mouldy old tarot card. 

The markets are to die for in Coyoacan, with lots of spangled skeletons, exquisite pottery and beautiful traditional fabrics. I am avoiding it as I'm still broke at the moment till I get paid, and every time I leave the hoose I seem to return to it with more artisanal crap and nothing useful, despite the genuine call for practical goods (a tin opener for example).

We've already made the peerie flat into a haven of awful art (paper mâché skeletons, decoupaged bottles and crepe paper bouquets to name a few) and I am thrilled to have a bookshelf, a clothes cupboard, a bathroom cabinet and a spice rack. It's the little things. 

We have used two cans of industrial strength Raid, since we moved in, in an attempt to stem the steady flow of cockroaches. If I start to think about it too much I get hysterical. They are disgusting, especially in their death throes, twitching and flailing in a horrible way, which makes me feel a combination of remorse for the hideous death we've inflicted, and irritation at its delayed effectiveness. Of a similar ilk, there is a man outside our door who sells tacos; all day, every day, from his rickety cart, and which he advertises in a bellowing voice through a megaphone. It was lovely and "ethnic" the first few times, but now it makes me apoplectic with rage. 

Since arriving I've managed to land several teaching jobs. It's gone from the sublime to the ridiculous in terms of personal effort expenditure; I have to get up at 5.00 every day (5.30 if you forgo breakfast and washing), and it takes me two hours travelling to get to my first class of adult learners, who aren't even within Mexico City. Seeing as 22 million other people are, the fact I've managed to source a teaching job in another state, is impressive, even for me.

I have two more classes as well, which are in the business district. Teaching, as I've intimated before is not my cup of tea. It's a genuinely amazing job and I have total respect for teachers of all subjects (except maths), but my God, I don't know how you do it. Probably with a degree more pride and capability than I've found exists in my feeble character.

My students are largely middle aged men, who gawp at me in a very disconcerting manner. They are very interested in my personal life and I shocked them all yesterday by saying I was going to gay pride at the weekend. I had earlier said me and Angela were living in a one bedroomed flat, and with this extra information, I could literally see their minds boggling. They were dying to ask if I was gay, but refrained from direct questioning. I will leave them to ponder it.

I've got about 12 hours teaching a week, which isn't quite enough, so I've  been attending lots of interviews, each more farcical than the last. I went to one the other day, where I managed to be fifteen minutes late, despite having hours to get there. The reason I was late, was because I was waiting for the first coat of paint to dry on my model skeleton. 

I arrived, out of breath, sweating and in disgusting men's shoes, because try as I might, I can't find any women's ones here in my size. My interviews have all  been pretty informal so far, so I was swigging a latte, clad in an anorak and with my hair in even more of a nick than usual. The fact the interview was held in something called, New York Times Building  in the city centre, should have alerted me to the fact that this was all inappropriate. 

I went up in a fancy glass elevator, and emerged into a fragrant office, full of Louis Vuitton clad secretaries and copies of Latin American Vogue, scattered artfully over the chic and minimalist furniture. You could even flush the paper down the toilet! Serious luxury. 

The interviewer was a handsome man in his thirties, which was also a new experience, and I babbled my way through the 20 minutes like an unhinged bag lady. I had to ask exactly what the job was, as I had forgotten, and he spent most of the interview looking at me as if I was a rare and unusual talking monkey. He laughed a lot too, at things that were not jokes. However, my university credentials saved the day, and I was offered the job. I hope it's one on one teaching, as that's so much easier. I have one guy at the moment who is incredibly interesting. I wrote him off as a posher, as he's some big wig in Mexico's biggest bank, but he's had an amazing life.  He told me his mum brought him up alone, in extreme poverty. He occasionally saw his dad, who was a genuine hermit, but mainly spent his childhood in one of Mexico's worst slums. He started working to supplement his mam's income when he was 7, and was obviously super clever, as he got a scholarship to one of Mexico's most illustrious private schools. He used to sit next to the presidents son in class, and then go home to a ghetto so dangerous, his mam wouldn't let him go out to play football. Anyway, he's a fascinating man and very comfortable with probing questions which makes the classes really interesting for nosy chops here. He's very thoughtful about the nature of wealth, and inequality in Mexico, which is refreshing, as I've hitherto found the attitude of wealthy Latin Americans a bit mind boggling. It seems to happen in a lot of places, that the very rich have ill disguised contempt for the poor of their nation; or at least no acknowledgement that often it's just a case of luck. I don't know, I guess I can understand the "anyone can do it" attitude, from someone like this guy, who has slogged his way from the bottom, right to the top, but he is quick to acknowledge his brains were unusual, and his mum and granny incredible in their support, which gave him an advantage.

I like him a lot, I enjoy how open he is, and my poking into his innermost private past is certainly improving his vocabulary, if nothing else. He has referred to our class as a "session" several times, which amuses me, as I do feel I've fallen into a bit of a psychiatrist role, albeit one who would be struck off, for writing about a patient on her blog....

I've not really met anyone else of much note. A nice Spanish guy at work who took us to a party. We rocked up wearing aforementioned men's shoes, and anoraks, munching the smelliest tacos ever, to find it was a soirée full of Mexicos gilded youth. Everyone was wearing designer clothes, and had hair like they were in a shampoo commercial. There was a really tall woman there, who I referred to as "massive like us" illiciting a chilly response, and I spent most of the time in the toilet, trying to sort my hair out. 

We left after an hour, shrieking with merriment at how awful it was, only to meet the host in the hall, who had heard our rude evaluation of his guests. This, quite rightly made us feel awful - as they had been kind enough to let two chat-less strangers come into their home, with their nasty tacos, ugly shoes and poor manners.  

I was also informed at said party, that everyone at the place I work, calls me Brave because I look "exactly the same". This did not go down well, and I'm still banging on about it, hoping for someone to contradict.  It's not as bad as the time someone told me I looked like Mick Hucknall, but it's not great. 

Anyway. I've got another class, so best go and find out what a phrasal verb is.

Chao. (Not ciao- turns out I've been spelling it wrong) 

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