The Last Blog? + Jodi y Gus

Jodi and Gus were here. We sat in cafes and practiced rolling our 'r's. Perro. Perro. Perro. Perrrrrro. I hope the locals sitting around us didn't think we were mocking them. We certainly gave them more reason to mock us. I still can't roll my 'r's, and I don't think Jodi can very well either. But we ate a delicious meaty/onion empanada, and one with corn that we all thought had chocolate inside. It was a surprise, let's leave it at that.

We explored much of the sites major and backroad of the city, and it was a nice break from work. One of the highlights was taking a boat down the canals of Xochimilco, which have been around since before the Spanish came. Frankly, it's much more lively and interesting than the canals of Venice--more colorful, more mariachi bands, stray dogs standing on the shore observing the chilangos locos. A big boat caught site of us and requested a band on a boat play "Quera," which means "light-skinned girl." They love whiteys around here. The colors and flare gave it the feel of Southeast Asia. We brought along sandwiches, mini-bananas, wine, and some delicious ruffles con sabor de queso. Here, take a look!




Also included in the week was a visit to the famous Lucha Libre, a masked, more acrobatic version of the WWF. Some of the fighters came out in army fatigues and wore swastikas on their masks. I rooted for the other guys, the good guys. Also, a midget fought, and he lost. Violently so. No cameras allowed (we ditched them nervously in a trash bag at the entrance), so no borderline homoerotic photos to share. On the other hand, I can show you Teotihuacan--ruins chockfull of vendors and obnoxious brits!




Jodi and Gus are good sports. We dragged them around town. We wearied our legs and the rain dampened our spirits at times, but with Cafe El Jarocho, late-night churros, and friendship, we survived in fine form. I'm off to the south, and then back to Chicago in a week and a half (la tristesse!). Please forgive my lazy blogging. Here are more pictures to make you forget you resent me.

Taxco and other happenings

The small, two-person terrace of Borda's cafe jutted out right on to the Plaza, the magnificent Iglesia de Santa Prisca staring back at our small faces, humbling us both. The premiere location offered cafes cons leches (and one presumes whatever else one might want--resembling a studio apartment more than anything else, the Senora scooted into her small kitchen and prepared everything to order) and an unprecedented opportunity to voyeur, to snatch photos of vendors, corrupt policias, and sluggish old men from a safe distance. James and I sat on the small balcony, as another man waited inside for what smelled like papas fritas. The Senora was kind but slow, and he sat patiently for at least twenty minutes. When I caught the man exiting onto the terrace through my camera lens, I noticed him hand his hard-earned food to a man clearly overwhelmed, hair in knots, clothes in tatters, lugging around a worn garbage bag over his shoulder. I marveled at the quiet humanity. In a place where one tends to think more of thievery, kidnapping, trafficking, and the like, despite having those perceptions changed, it's always nice to experience somewhat intimately a moment like the above. This act was still counteracted by the twin-brother team of petty terrorism--pickpocketing, stripping in the plaza, squealing in strange high-tone nasal voices that seemed to come straight from hell. At any rate, these were the varying sides of humanity that Borda's cafe afforded.

Taxco is a hillside town that we'd hoped would provide a bit of respite from the heavy pollution of the city, from work schedules that seem to interrupt our attempts to further explore, from congested traffic. The air was fresher, the sky bluer, the stars viewable from one of many rooftop terraces. We serpented through the narrow cobblestone streets (the European influence is distinct), sat in unpretentious plazas in front of simpler churches, higher in the hills. And ate well. If there's one thing that Mexico has consistently offered me, it's been top-notch comida at an affordable price. I've been gorging myself on the various salsas, relishing the cheap comida corrida, the Mexican rendition of the Menu du Jour, but at a scant fee of $3.50. Carrot soups con queso, aromatic rice, chile rellenos, chicken-stuffed squash, etc., these are the trappings of America's finest fare, and yet it is served with flare and humility, and at a price that alienates no one.

I already dread the end. These pictures will show you why!

mexico: un mundo des contrastes

Hello friends! Welcome to my first blog from D.F., el ciudad de Mexico. I came here expecting both third word elements and surprise at how civilized the city really is. Every guidebook and every former voyager told me that travelers are pleased with how much their pejorative expectations were arrested by the kindness of the locals, by the cosmopolitan air, by the relative safety of the city. This has certainly all been confirmed. I have come to see the city as one of stark contrasts: the extreme wealth rubbing shoulders with indescribable poverty; sunny skies against afternoon rain; modern skyscrapers versus Aztec remains, cheap metro tickets versus normally-priced starbucks (don't worry, I only went because it's where James meets his boss). This blog will be a tour of my exploration from yesterday, all which easily falls under a study of dichotomies. See if you can pick them out without me highlighting them! Come on, it will be fun.

The day began with my first Mexico City metro ride. This is one of the largest metros in the world, carrying more than 3.8 million passengers daily. It is also more efficient than most metros I've taken and hands down the cheapest. For sixteen cents, one can ride across the city, serenaded by blind men on accordions, blind women on guitars, blind men and women singing. They must be an organized group. At peak hours, a train seems to speed by every thirty seconds; we never waited more than two minutes. The metro was the nightmare that overtook my sleep in the weeks preceding my departure. This was the beast that I thought would destroy me, turn me upside down, shake out all my shiny coins and personal belongings. In the end, I was amazed at the facility and efficiency of the system.

Our first train ride took us to the famous Zocalo square in the centro historico, one of the largest public squares in the world. Here one finds the ruins of an Aztec temple, famous historically for live human sacrifices. Next to the temple is the Metropolitan Cathedral, dating from the 16th century. Across the way is the 17th century National Palace, and in the middle of the square one often finds war protesters. Yesterday, a big black tank holding riot-gear milita men rolled into the square. This one center holds such strange contradictory and competing action that it's almost overwhelming, nothing like the manicured and temporally-consistent squares of Western Europe. Here are some pictures from the square. My favorite is of the organ-grinder, to whom I offered a few pesos out of guilt for snatching her photo.










James and I then decided it was now or never, and that we couldn't be stopped by fear--something along those lines. So we buckled our proverbial seat belts and ate tacos off of the street. For $1.50, one can get five(!!!) tacos, so for $3.00, we purchased ten tacos of ambiguous meat filling (I found out later at least one of the tacos was made from stomach/intestine, but I certainly don't know which), praying over cilantro that we worried would make us sick--one is to be leery of fresh fruits and vegetables, as they've often been washed in tap water. The tacos were delicious, and 24 hours later, we seem to be alive and diarrhea-free. This experience of expectations trumped (and oh so tasty) was necessary to my further exploration of cheap culinary adventures.

On our way across Avenue de Reforma, we ran into a FASCINATING protest, which looked more like an orgy/spring-break beach party, with a tam tam drum constantly beating, and multiple stages of fully-nude bodies dancing. Below them, in contrast, were two-rows of riot-gear clad police. Unfortunately the pictures I took didn't turn out; I have a very conservative camera. Apparently they've been protesting daily since May 3rd against the city government's denial of their right to protest. And apparently it's too difficult to arrest hundreds of nude, angry Latin Americans. Fascinating! Aren't dialectics fun?!

After the bustle of downtown, it was nice to return to my neighborhood of Coyoacan, former home of Frida Kahlo. Coyoacan means "place of the coyote," which is symbolic to me in someway. In my book, it means something like "run wild, be free in your soul, live passionately, etc." It looks and feels like an isolated colonial city, and it is very quiet. Its roads are made of uneven stone, and in the evening when it rains, certain streets flood dramatically. At seemingly every corner is a plush garden, plaza, or Spanish-era church. Behind tall security walls, one sees the garish roofs of fancy mansions. Taquerias, ice cream shops, and street-side churro vendors dominate the landscape. It feels like home! Please enjoy the pictures of my lovely neighborhood, and check back for more news!

how not to take communion

it had been awhile since i'd gone. since i'd taken the sacrament. the line moves slowly, the faces revealing whether they'd come out of duty or out of faith. i approach; my turn. a massacred loaf of bread at the center of the altar, where the preacher stood, hands raised; a chalice of juice in the middle (for the young in age and young in rebellion), a chalice of wine on the outer edge of the altar. nothing but white space between myself and the elements, i approach. i rip a corner from the bread, using my right hand to steady the loaf as i tear. i then dip it into the wine. "shit." it comes out. i dare not make eye contact with the pastor, i seek not confirmation that he heard. the bread floats limply in the holy blood, and for a moment i wonder whether i should dip my hand into the chalice and fish it out. i opt for a cleaner version, and try with another piece. so there it is, at the altar of redemption and salvation, as i take the elements, i let some less than wholesome speak slip out of my mouth. i suppose the forgiveness comes in the imbibing, in the swallowing. and so that is what i did as i walked solemnly back to my pew.

hours made to spend with others

he's begun to worry what others will think; what they think now. "i couldn't get a job now if i wanted to! you think someone would hire a crazy old man who hasn't worked in 24 years, who's raised a bunch of girls, whose wife provides for him?" he says it as if he's started to worry himself, as if some days he wonders if he should read his fantasy novels on the front porch during the middle of the day, wondering what the neighbors must think. "a man sitting around all day waiting for his wife to provide. despicable!" but he's learned that he has to answer the call. if it comes at 3 in the morning, if it comes at 3 in the afternoon, he knows he has to get up, sit outside, and reflect and pray. he confesses to sometimes being half asleep, and how that doesn't matter, because he's still learning something. he tells me that everyone thinks he's crazy or irresponsible, but he knows this is what he's supposed to be doing. he's supposed to have free hours. he's supposed to open that front door to anyone that knocks--magazine salesmen, mormons, the woman down the street, the insurance woman. he's to hear their problems, hear nothing, hear everything. but that door must be answered, and he must listen.

he speaks of inspiration. his days on the circuit at the black church. the elders would approach him and say "ronnie, whatcha preaching on sunday?" "i don't know," he'd respond, "but i've been fasting and studying." he tells me that he would not know what he was to speak of as he approached the pulpit, but that in that very moment that words would spill out. and that's when he realized that he was to do that. much as it grieved him at times. "my uncle frank called me and told me I needed to be praying for an hour a day. AN HOUR A DAY?!, i thought! impossible." but he's done it, even when it was simulation, even when his daughters dreaded it, and he as much as they.

he stops me as I ride pass tonight. he asks me about rwanda and the paper i'm writing. wonders if i'd discovered the causes--were there outside forces? was the CIA involved? The nephulum comes up. the sky darkens. the mosquitos bite. he returns to the central theme of all these years, like always, about getting right with god now. and as always, i walk away believing him.

the paper that looks like money

i remember it. that awkward exchange. the old man in line behind, anxious to buy his big red gum in a hurry. and mom pulling out that over-sized paper money that wasn't money, but, on a good day, operated as smoothly as the real stuff. nowadays, the transaction is less embarrassing for the bearers, less arduous for the big-red-gum-buying sorts, tapping their toes, sighing loudly, running their fingers over sharon stone's face on the glossy cover. I am 24, and should I give birth to three children in the next day, I will be awarded some sort of assistance from the government. But as it is, I am single, in between jobs (or two or three of them), and still living at home. But other than the plethora of cereal options at my disposal, provided kindly by the father, I'm on my own.

My slight disparity all hits home after watching a slew of Beverly Hill 90210 (season 2) episodes. Granted, I feel duller after having indulged, but man, all that neon-clad volleyball action, and bmw-buying, and oceanside triviality reminds me that I live in the 68502 zipcode, and things operate a little differently here.

Where am I going with all of this? Well, first of all, dialogue in my own life is most definitely better than that delivered in the show. Minus the synthy soundtrack. [But between you and me, I know an islander who could help out with that.] Second of all, my life still looks rosy and 90210 to someone else; my complaints are really just a series of neuroses afforded to me by a certain amount of wealth we Americans know (preachy mcpreacherson). Finally, life is something to sort out. The scholarly life is safety from taking on real issues, ones we dealt with peripherally as children (mom exchanging signed notes for potatoes and milk). But these images sneak back up on you and stare you down in the awkward transitional periods. Adult, but not steady; child, but not naive.

You may be asking yourself now, those neophyte blog-readers out there, how the picture I've opened up with hooks up with the blog's subject matter. I guess the moral is, between jobs or not, half empty or half full, one can still dress up and dance and relish something. Be it little dogs, black and white ceramic (oh-so-racialist), or falling in the mud followed by ceremonial foot-washing at a corner park (a man watches birds at the fountain; a woman reads the paper. it is 8:15 in the morning).

the telluride film festival recap, or how i stole a picture from mr. stewart

I half believed I would return to autumn. The nights are cooler, indeed, but the midday humidity still sucks my already tight shirts to the ol' ma'ams and draws negative attention in yet another long line of interviews. I've stooped low, kiddies, and am no longer envisioning grand things for myself (aka, trying out for the big jobs), but am instead subverting myself to the double interview process strangely drawn upon by the fast food-chain-owned coffee house in town (camped out conveniently and awkwardly in said fast food chain's parking lot). The stern interviewer cracked when I said I'd like to be a mountaineer if I could.

But this isn't about that. Nor about that old feces (read: thesis) that's due in something like five weeks (of which I really have yet to start). No, this is to brag about the cool nights in Telluride, and the brilliant days (most of which I actually missed as I couldn't pull myself away from the silver screen). This year I had the great fortune to travel to the Telluride Film Fest with three excellent comrades, Bill, Joe, and Andrew, all from ol' Neeeeebraska. I also was lucky in my first foray into the couchsurfing world. Mr. Brown was a delightful host, if not mostly absent, and we shared some good chuckles and convo over Chinese food. I was able to watch twelve films between my ushering shifts at the theatre and the shows I watched like all the regular not-so-regular passholders, in long queues, braving cold and heat, and those blasted line cutters. Here's a run down of some of the highlights, many of which, I suppose, will be the big films of the awards season. Bear with me if this is 1) long, 2) tedious, 3) obnoxious, 4) more awesome than you could imagine.

Todd Haynes's "I'm Not There," USA
This is the new Dylan biopic, sorta, or rather, a postmodern tale tracing Dylan's various personas, from the folk revivalist to the electric guitar dissenter to Billy the Kid and French poet Arthur Rimbaud. Yeah, weird. To further highlight Dylan's transformative nature (always "becoming" never just "being"), the story follows not only these different facets of his personality but plays them out with different actors and actresses. It's crazy. But it's also stunningly beautiful, and a brilliant concept. Unfortunately, the film drags, its parallels sometimes unclear, and its focus redirected too many times. Haynes is likely making a point here. It's not easy to understand Dylan, and thus spectator alienation is not so out of step with Dylan's real life. But . . . Anyway, see it for the music, and for the few moments of brilliance, and for the breathtaking cinematography. And cause it's Dylan, for pete's sake.

Werner Herzog's "Encounters at the End of the World," Germany
I've misunderstood Herzog since "Aguirre, the Wrath of God," and loved him desperately since "Stroszek." He has a brilliance, a beauty, and a hilarity that are unique, and it was my great pleasure to see his new film on Antarctica (and to see HIM as well as he was present to introduce his film). As always, he seeks not normalcy, and asks questions like "are penguins ever deranged or insane?" In one of the most genius moments of the film, he documents one penguin that has apparently left the pack (do penguins live in packs?), wandering not toward the feeding area, nor toward the mating area, but taking off alone toward the mountains. Herzog later asks why monkeys that are intelligent beings don't subjugate lower life forms--like kidnapping goats and riding them into the distance. There are grim moments in the film, as well--the general scientific sense that humanity, like the dinosaurs, won't survive, without offering any positive "what you can do to save the world" list. The film, though, is mostly about the characters he meets (what strange and wonderful people decide to flee here), and his sharp commentary interspersed. This was my favorite film of the festival.

Sean Penn's "Into the Wild," USA
Both Penn and author John Krakauer were present for the film. The prior walking around with a cigarette in his mouth, filling all Galaxy Theatre staff with terror. The crackle over the headsets went as such: "Ummm, who wants to tell Mr. Penn that he can't smoke on the theatre property?" Yikes. The floor manager and I exchanged glances at several tedious and over-saccharine moments in the film. Still, the idea of fleeing all, burning money and identification and social security cards, and running off to Alaska, via Kansas, Mexico, and California, inspires. But the film felt too heavyhanded, falling too easily into typical Hollywood machinations. Ultimately, too hyped.

Marco Ferreri's "Dillinger is Dead," Italy
A little treasure from 1969, recently restored and distributed by the old tendertroves at the Criterion Collection. A film about time, space, and cinema, I suppose. A film about patience (on a spectator level). For the duration, one follows a man in a kitchen, cooking, disassembling a gun, soaking its parts in olive oil, reassembling it, painting it red with white polka dots, all while changing restlessly between radio stations. This and a honey-dipped mistress. And super 8 footage that he interacts with (for a longer period of time than you'd expect). It really is genius, but again, must be seen. One of my favorites. Copy and paste into your netflix queue: Dillinger is dead.

Eran Kolirin's "The Band's Visit," Israel
The bright spot of a festival dominated by dark storylines. This brilliant film follows the misadventures of an Egyptian police band lost and stranded in a small town in Israel. Bill and I waited in a long line at the Palm theatre, cynical about humanity and the poor behaviors mob tension brings out. But we left wanting to dance, peel oranges, and love people. The film was simple story-wise and cinematographically. There were rarely cuts, and thus action and comedy had to spill out into the screen instead of being cut into. Kolirin delivered complex expression through simple means--colors, framing, facial pathos. The Q&A afterward revealed some interesting insight, including the undercurrent of politics. The film, he said, is a tribute to the Egyptian romance films on the TV of Israel's youth (Israel now looks west, not east, for models of love). When asked about the comedic moments in the film, he said he saw the film as an incredibly sad story. I had a hard time believing him, as I reflected on a scene in a skating rink, delivering raw comedy in a way I have rarely seen it.

Noah Baumbach's "Margot at the Wedding"
I am a f-a-n of this ol' chap, and was looking forward to this film--a story about the tensions between two sisters as one decides to marry an absolute dingleberry, played by Jack Black, to give you an idea of the dingleberry potential involved. As always, Mr. Baumbach develops great authenticity in his characters, and the exchanges between characters are sharp and delightfully real (despite his perhaps over-pretentious rendering of adolescent dialogue). All I can say is this: great, great performances, but a little lacking story-wise. These characters, though well-delivered, I couldn't, nor wanted to associate with.

Jason Reitman's "Juno"
This film is based off of a screenplay written by Diabolo Cody, who was discovered through her blog. It follows at 16-year-old girl (played brilliantly by Ellen Page) who gets pregnant, and thus shops around for adoptive parents. Her dialogue is sharp throughout, in a Veronica Mars sort of way--a witty comment on hand for any occasion. It is continuously funny, and, as one of the sneak previews at the festival, it was a welcome change from the usual fare of genocide and suffering presented at the festival. This will be a big one in the fall, I'm sure.

Marjane Satrapi's "Persepolis"
Persepolis is an animation, based off of the comic book history of Satrapi's childhood. The animation is beautifully done, and the story well executed. It follows a young girl growing up in Iran under the oppressive Shah, and follows her through the revolution, the Shah's overthrow, the war with Iraq, and the "freedom" post war. As it is told through her perspective, it is surprisingly comical at times, heartwrenching at others. A great gem on female coming-of-age. And a good historical update on life in Iran. Very impressive.

So as not to weigh you down with all descriptions, shoot me an E-mail me if you're interested, and I'll tell you all the films I saw and provide you with some better commentary.

Go film! Whoot!