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) 

Sent from my iPho