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.