The beat goes on... indefinitely.

Presumably because today is University Student Day here in Guanajuato, there's been a party going on at the house above and behind the school (that's how things are structured here in Gto--due to the hilly terrain, each building seems to be rather perilously perched not quite directly on top of the one below it) since about 2 this afternoon. It doesn't bother me, really; it sounds as though they're having fun, and whatever they're cooking smells good. There's essentially been a party going on throughout town since around 2 this afternoon, as far as I can tell. I ventured twice into the Centro, only to be rather overwhelmed my hordes and hordes of young people, many decked out in their finest Vaquero outfits, all heading in the opposite direction. I'm very cutting edge and daring, I suppose, battling my way through the crowds. Or foreign and lost, more likely.

Once I got downtown, having avoided being trod upon by any dangerously pointy boots, I stopped in at El Unicornio Azul, a small healthfoodish shop, where I was able to get a cup of yogurt, half an inch of honey at the bottom, piled precariously high with sliced fruit and sprinkled with granola--$1.40. I wandered around downtown for a bit, under a soft mid-afternoon sprinkle, throught the strangely quiet streets--Everyone had headed uphill, I thnk, to take part in the festivities.

I returned to the school a little before six in order to attend the intercambio: Mexican students learning English meet with us Falconians, as I suppose we might be called. We get to practice our Spanish, and they their English. It was quite fun really; I ended up staying an hour and a half talking about politics and politicians, both Mexican and American, with John, another student of Spanish, from Colorado, and a Mexican fellow, probably 30 and balding, whose name escapes me. He likes Calderon, Mexico's new president, who very narrowly defeated Lopez Obrador, the more liberal candidate; this surprised me, as I had only every heard him be slammed by Amy Goodman. As far as I'm concerned, his opinion is just as valid--he is, after all, Mexican.

After the intercambio, I again headed into the Centro to find some sort of dinner. I took a bus down, which was most likely no faster than walking, but easier. We putted past the stadium where the majority of the festivities were ocurring. It looked packed. Mariachi-style bass thumped and throbbed. I ended up eating again at Truco 7, mostly for the convinience of not having to search for somewhere else. Needless to say, it was much busier this evening, but the waiter remembered me. "Enmolejadas de queso?" he asked, impressively. I had only been in once, and he probably saw 500 people everyday. Regardless, I decided to try something different: green chile cheese enchiladas. I must say, our green chile in NM is hotter (although this place probably caters largely to tourists). Nonetheless, they were quite good. at the table across from me two Gramita-ish types (who might very well ahve been mother and daughter) were eating soup and drinking beer. When their main courses arived, they argued about sharing food, they younger one trying to putt some of her food on the older one's plate, only to have it returned. "No lo voy a acabar. Pruebelo," the younger woman urged, to no avail.

As it had grown dark by the time I was done, I opted for a taxi back to the school. On the radio played lovely, calm guitar music. The cool night air rushed in through the open window, fresh and cool (except in the tunnels, where it was flat and smelled of gasoline. Have I mentioned all the subterranean roads? Madness.).

In the distance, there is still the sound of music, the surefooted booming of the bass.

Dal Face

Today was fairly quite, except for the donkeys walking down the street downtown--four of then, lead by an old man in a sombrero, complete with colorful Mexican saddle blankets. I heard the clopping, turned round, and of course was unable to find my camera in time to get a good photo of them. Quite an endearing sight, though, burros en la calle.

Regardless of how quiet a day it is, I can always write about food. In my cooking class today we made quesadillas and Mexican cocoa. We actually made the corn tortillas by hand (though the masa had been purchased from a tortilleria), and filled them with queso Oaxaca (a stringy mozzarella-is cheese), zucchini flowers, nopalitos (prickly pear paddles, which we grilled and sliced), and a Mexican herb whose name entirely escapes me at the moment. It began with an 'E'... The cocoa consisted of milk, Mexican chocolate (the very same Abuelita chocolate you can buy at Albertson's), and a cinammon stick, which is what made it so tasty. Que rico! And very convinient to have a class in which you make lunch.

For dinner I decided to find a vegetarian restaurant recommended by my Lonely Planet book, called La Esquina del Sol. I took a bus down town (40 cents--the bus stops for you if you look at it with any sort of intent, even if you're not at a designated bus stop). I made my way through the wildly curving street, past a large church whose facade was being renovated. I spied people, the faithful, presumably, sitting inside. Just past the church, at the end of the street, was a restaurant I very well might have missed had I not been looking for it. It was, in reality, called "Yamura." "Solo Vegetales," read the small sign. I poked my head in, saw one other couple sitting in the corner. A boy of about ten, dark and round-faced, presumably the waiter (definitely a family establishment) came up to me. "Are you open?" I asked. "Of course," he replied, unspeakably polite, "sit where you like." I sat at a small, nicely set table. Under the white and orange table cloths, I think it was probably made of aluminum, as were the chairs under their classy black covers. "Are you familiar with out menu?" I was not. Hands clasped infront of im, he told me very professionally: "First we have a green salad with steamed vegetables, then dal [lentil] and vegetable soup; the main course is cauliflower pakora with rice, and for dessert we have yogurt with straberries." I certainly hadn't been counting on a four course meal; the guidebook had something about salads and soups and sandwiched, and a wide selection of teas, although it was probably talking about a restaurant that no longer exists... The food was good, considetring it was vegetarian Indian food in a country of staunchly traditional meat eaters. The boy brought the plates in quick succession, and I munched away as best I could. The walls, painted with green leaves and swirls here and there, were adorned with photographs of classical Indian dancers and Hindu deities. Two fluorescent lights illuminated the vases of flowers on the table; Jazz played on the stereo. The boy would go back and forth from the open floor-to-ceiling window, where he would wach passers-by on the street, to a stool behind the counter, where he sat beside a giant papier-mache angel and read the paper. His little brother, probaby 6 or 7, wandered in and out. It was Mexico at its most incongruous and delightful. The tab? $4.00.


Upon exiting, I noticed people still in the church. "Ave Maria..." sang a man's voice. And then again, but two or three voices now, sweetly harmonizing. "Ave Maria, Ave Maria..." With each Ave the harmony grew, the voices, clear and strong, wrapping each other, wrapping around me. I stopped, transfixed, for a moment. The sun, slipping into the west, threw a few golden beams against the wall behind me. The voices faded, and I walked on, into the fading light, and the smells and sounds of the street. Ahead of me, the moon, almost full, rose above the perilously perched houses of Guanajuato.

Mission: Kettle

It's always something. Today, after my classes, all of which were in the morning, I decided to go in search of an electric kettle--una cafetera electrica. It's a bit silly, I know, but there's nowhere to get boiling water in the evenings, and I brought a lot of teabags. I walked downtown, this time by a much safer and more expedient route, and bean poking around, looking for anywhere that looked as though it might sell such things. No luck, despite fairly extensive wanderings, though I did find El Unicornio Azul, a very, very small health-food shop. I got some granola and yogurt there, and asked the shopkeeper if he knew where I might find my kettle. "Ni idea," he responded. Okay. I decided to catch a taxi back to the school around four, and on a whim, asked the cab driver if he might know. he also had "ni idea," but radioed to ask. He offered to take me to a small mall where he was sure there would be sucha thing. Indeed, there, was, though not in the particular store he had said to go into. Regardless, I did find one (which leaked, of course, all over the table). I probably used up a good 45 minutes of the cab drivers time, and the fare was still only $10.


This morning I started my classes. After glancing at my placement test and giving me an oral exam, which consisted of asking which classes I wanted to take, Mali, the woman helping me, decided I was at an advance level. As such, I am taking a Literature class, in which I am the only student, a Mexican cookery class, and a Mexican Culture class. I've already read quite a bizarre story by Carlos Fuentes for my literature class called "Chac Mool," in which an imitation idol purchased from a roadside vendor comes to life and destroys a man's life. Magical Realism--you gotta love it, I suppose, or be completely freaked out by it... In the cooking class, we made capirotada, a bread pudding very similar to that which we make in NM: Bread, sugar syrup, cheese, raisins, nut. Except this one isn't baked. I was unable to eat it (bread), but it looked quite good, despite the fact that, this being Mexico, we used some strange fake cheese... The teacher of the culture class was a bit intimidating. She never smiled, hardly looked at me, and likes to actively correct your Spanish, which I'm not sure how I feel about. Regardless, I think she's okay.

There was on orientation this evening with the director and founder of the school, an affable man named Jorge. He gave the rundown on scheduling, housing, safety, bacteria in the water, etc. He seems like quite a cool guy, though. He started the school some twenty yeats ago, without any sort of permanent space. They would hold classes in parts and cafes, he said. They bought this building ten years ago, and at the moment are in the process of bilding a miniature golf course in one of the courtyards, something I think is quite funny. All in all, I feel quite comfortable here (except for the slightly funky bathrooms--muddy, tepid showers... I told the offie about the mud though, and they said something would be done about it right away. "If there's anything at all that you see that needs fixing," the woman told me, "tell us right away and we'll do something.") . The school feels quite safe, and I'm glad to report that there seems to be a resident cat lurking about.


After the orientation, I sat under one of the portals around the courtyard, the evening sunlight streaming in over my shoulder, illuminatin the grapefruit tree. I remained there until the light faded, rendering it too difficult to read the strange tale I was working on.

Food total for the day: $4.50. That lunch, dinner, and a snack in between.

Aqui estoy...

Well, Folks... I'm in Guanajuato, Mexico now, as some of you might be aware. I'm sitting in my dorm, listening to what sounds like it might have been small arms fire in the distance. In reality, it's probably just fireworks, of a flowerpot falling off a high terrace. I've seen plenty poised to do just that. Guanajuato is a lovely town, exactly what you think of when someone says "rustic Mexico." The street where my school, Academia Falcon (pictured at left), is located, is a fairly quiet, more residential one. Guanajuato, as a "Patrimonia de la Humanidad," or World Heritage Site, has no stop lights, neon signs, or anything of the sort. What it does have is plenty of narrow, winding streets dotted generously with fuscia bougainvillea, old homes piled improbably up the steep hillsides like so many dyed sugar cubes, and fruit vendors every fifty paces. No, I have not yet given in to the temptation to buy fruit from them, despite it's mouthwatering array of colors. Don't eat the fruit, don't drink the water, unless you want to have what they call Turista, what many visitors get upon coming to Mexico. That is, uncontrolable diarrhea, etc.

I haven't been to Mexico in nearly seven years, but so much of it still seems very comfortable to me. I remember so many of the smells--corn tortillas, flowers, soap, the occasional smell of rot (Guanajuato is much, much cleaner than other places I've been in Mexico, but you still come across it). I took a tepid shower earlier, the shower head spraying maniacally across the room, and when I stepped out, the smell of my towel brought be right back to a hotel we stayed in probably nine or ten years ago in a small town near the Copper Canyon called Creel... White walls, "Mediterranean"-red shingles, bulky, comfortable wooden furniture. It was winter then, I think; I remember drinking something hot to ward off the cold.


Most everyone I've met has been quite friendly. I met someone else doing this same language program at the airport in Houston, so we were able to compare notes and share the taxi from the airport in Leon, which was a) less intimidating and, b) cheaper. We were met at the school by two young men, employees of the school, whose names I'd be hard-pressed to recall at this point; one spoke perfect, almost unaccented English. The other spoke none at all. I've been quite pleased to discover that I really haven't had much trouble communicating with anyone as of yet. A lot of my problem, I think, is that I try to speak out to fast and end up sounding drunk because of it...

The school is rather funky but very cool, and has a good feeling, a safe one. It's set around a small, shady courtyard with a mango three and a grapefruit tree, both with fruit (!). The dorms are named after fruit. I'm in Kiwi 6. The bathroom is located in a narrow alley way behind the dorms--funky, as I said. There is a woman from California and Texas ("I have to say thet I'm from California and Texas," she drawled, "because I'm coming from California but I've got this strong texas accent." She was clutching a bottle of nail polish remover, talking to me through the open window.) who offered to answer any of my questions, and a family of five from North Carolina, all fair with dark, dark hair. I asked the mother if she knew of anywhere I could get hot water for tea. She offered to boil some for me on the stove in their room.


We all knew it was coming: I'm writing about food now. I somehow wandered all the way downtown this afternoon (you don't get so tired of walking, I find, when you don't really know your destination), a trip made much longer by the fact that I got rather lost and ended up the sole pedestrian on a narrow street that felt more like a canal, steep rock walls jutting twenty feet up on each side. At one point I stopped and realized I done precisely what I had meant not to do: I was alone in this strange stone passageway, naught but the occasional taxi zipping by, not entirely sure where I was, feeling quite vulnerable... Around the next bend was one of the Plazas of the Centro, however, lively and bustling. Entirely by chance, I came across the restaurant that I had actually wanted to find, one called Truco 7, located on one of the many downtown callejones. $3.50 got me a plate of four, count 'em, four rolled corn tortillas, covered with mole, and refried beans as well. I thought I was getting good value in New Zealand. Not wanting anymore excursions through strange subteranean streets, I took a taxi back to the school for $2.50... For the money, you really can't beat it.

Not to worry about small arms fire, or anything of the sort. I think I was just hearing the rumblings of a distant partida de futbol. The only sounds coming in my window now are the chirpings of crickets, distant dogs barking, and the occassional cry of "Baruuuyooo!" Mañana empezaré mis clases... Que bien! Now, to sleep on my pilly sheets in my funny little room, complete with a motley assortment of hangers, a flashlight, and a big jug of potable water. Que bien!

Ah, I see all my photos are sideways. Please bear with me, I know it's damnable. Just tilt your head a bit, or turn your computer on its side.