8-December-2019, Sunday, 7:30 PM CDT
Two days ago marked six months for us in Mexico. In one half year there have been plenty of ups and downs. At times I feel like I'm on the homestretch of the Phoenix and riding the bunny hops that come with serving as a PCV. Thanks to my fellow volunteers, our Mexican counterparts, and the wonderful PC Mexico staff, this past week was a definite upswing for me--for all of us I'd bet. The last post was one week ago today, before I saw Doctor Sleep (thought it was very good, maybe a bit biased because I read the book and there was a Ka reference). Here's a recap of what went down during Early In-Service Training (EIST).
I am realizing once again that I need to take better notes so I can narrow down the content and deliver a more focused piece of writing. Oh well. The first two days of EIST were in Querétaro, where we were trained before shipping out to our posts. I didn't know how much I missed all of my colleagues until we were reunited in our first Mexican home. Sometimes it takes time away from people and places to realize how much we appreciate them. The first days in QRO started with Spanish classes. I was glad to see how much I and other volunteers had progressed in our new language. Later we got to share about our first three months at site. Four minutes was not enough time for any of us--I'm sure we all could have talked for 40--but I shared how well I integrated with my family in Tepexi and how my counterpart Hugo and I need to change a lot in order to better work toward Peace Corps's goals, which are right here by the way because you probably don't know them.
1. "To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.
2. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.
3. To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans."
I'm doing just fine with Goals 2 and 3, but need to change a lot for next semester to achieve Goal 1. This semester, which was amazing, I taught five classes on my own. On its own, there's nothing wrong with me teaching five classes by myself; those students benefit from a native speaker and certified teacher leading their learning; but it's not the sustainability we're looking for. The old give a man a fish adage comes to mind. I gave fish to over one hundred students for an entire semester--I believe I gave some of them nets and rods as well--but what TEC really needs are good English teachers that are going to stay long after I'm gone. For the next semester, Hugo and I need to focus on co-teaching and improving together as instructors.
On Wednesday we drove two hours southeast to the capital of Mexico and an absolutely massive, sprawling city, the city, if you will, Mexico City. Jeezooey, what a place man, an amazing place. I couldn't help but gawk at the sights of houses crammed together, stretching across the land and disappearing over the horizon and rascacielos, skyscrapers, shooting out of the earth's surface and striving for the clear blue skies. It was a fantastic feeling to be with a group of people that I'm growing so close to, experiencing something new together.
We checked into the hotel and had lunch around one. At two we made the short walk to the place that I had been looking forward to seeing--The Benjamin Franklin Library. I'm not going to lie, I was expecting a building more architecturally more impressive than what we saw, but it's all good. The library is a federal building, so we had to go through metal detectors and take of belts and all that jazz to get in. Once inside we had sessions on grant money available to fund our work here in Mexico. There was a virtual scavenger hunt that I would've taken more seriously if I'd have known there was a prize. Instead I was more interested in revisiting Franklin's Virtues, via his autobiography, specifically the one on chastity, which I've included below.
"Rarely use venery but for health or offspring,
never to dulness, weakness, or the injury of your own or
another’s peace or reputation."
That night, with a 10 PM curfew to keep us safe, we hit the town. We started in a big group that split off shortly after a picture in front of Palacio de Bellas Artes (Palace of Fine Arts). Rob and I, with our counterparts, toured CDMX's small Chinatown then went to find some food and a few drinks. After a brief stop at Bar Florida--which proved to be sufficiently seedy--we walked through Alameda Central, the city's equivalent to Central Park, albeit significantly smaller--though CDMX beats NYC in both population and area, I believe. From Bar Florida we went to Bukowski's a bar/restaurant/cafe/bookstore where we met two lady Brits and an American. Here I sampled a mezcal that I really liked called Murciélago, which means bat in English--like the flying mammal. We sang karaoke and connected with everyone we met until the responsible hour of 10 PM, at which time we returned to the hotel.
The next day's training was very useful, as we learned co-teaching strategies and some best practices for teaching in general. That night we headed back to QRO, crammed tight into a Sprinter van where we watched two of the three Taken movies and chowed down on rest stop tortas. As we were rolling into our city, Bohemian Rhapsody came on the radio and we jammed as a team until it gave way to Eminem's Without Me.Once at PC Mexico headquarters, we threw open the Sprinter's door with Marshal blastin and were met with a widely-grinning Josh Spetter, our Director of Programming and Training.
On Friday, I led a brief introduction to classroom management, ad hoc, using the "toolbox" I compiled under the direction of one of the best teachers in the world--Dr. Thomas Starmack. A few of my colleagues are teaching English though their backgrounds are not in education. After twenty minutes, they said the session was useful and that they were given strategies to better manage their classrooms at post.
I spent last night in QRO and travelled home to Tepexi today. Last night my good friend Joe and I watched the BIG Ten Championship with some American businesspeople/Ohio State fans. It was nice to speak English and watch football for a while with them. I was also pleased to discover that none of them spoke English, while Joe is fluent is Spanish and me approaching advanced. My dream of speaking/listening in secret is coming true :) It's truly fabulous to be here teaching, learning, and living in Mexico.
Till next time. Do your best and don't give up.
Sunday, December 8, 2019
Sunday, December 1, 2019
I'm at the Movies!
1-December-2019, Sunday, 3:14 PM CDT
Cinépolis Plaza Pabellón Campestre
Queretaro, QRO
I woke up at 4:30 this morning and was on the bus by 5. Two bumpy, restless hours later we pulled into CAPU at Puebla. An hour later I was on a double-decker jumbo jet sans wings. It cost me ₱70, about tree-fiddy, and a couple hours for the early morning rumbling tremble to Puebla and ₱825, about 41 bucks, to glide in reclining luxury for six hours to Querétaro. Here we are together again for the first time since August. I can't wait to see everybody and reconnect over all that's happened at site.
I was among the first to check into the hotel and had time to kill. Upon opening the door I discovered that the room wasn't ready. At first I thought maybe Rob had beat me there and already broken in the room. But neither bed was made, and there were no towels. So I found a theater playing Doctor Sleep, told the front desk that the room wasn't ready, and set out on an hour walk to the theater. On the way I stopped at a tiny park with workout equipment and got a quick pump in. There I had a pleasant exchange, albeit one with few words, with Mexican security official passing time on a bench. I also had a wonderful conversation with my Uber driver Brandon on the way to the hotel. My Spanish is getting better every day; I speak quite fluently with certain people, yet stumble through talks with others. This isn't unlike my speaking ability in English.
I'm so excited for Doctor Sleep, for the movie theater experience in general. I wanted to see it in Puebla a few weeks back, but it didn't happen. I almost settled for a different flick at a closer theater, but made the right choice by making the walk down here from el centro. There are no theaters in Tepexi, and I feel deprived of a common US luxury, like Dustin and I felt on the road back in 2015. Going to the movies--our first, Jurassic World in Hutch, KS, my second was Inside Out ;)--sitting in front of the silver screen with an excessive amount of popcorn and soda and being whisked away from your reality, is a "dose of normalcy" that helps me unwind and recharge my batteries. Anyway, the book was amazing, and I'm excited for the movie. Because of the book, I, not as often as I should, "get kneebound" in the morning and asked God for help, then give thanks at night. I sometimes feel more invested in worlds of fiction than I do this reality. Speaking of "other worlds than these..."
You're dying to know about Ignacio the lantern fish, I know. Well, you're going to have to wait because, because maybe you'll read it some day. Send me positive vibes to finish it. It doesn't have to be good, it just needs to be finished. It can be made good later, because, as you know, writing is rewriting. We have a good thing going in our cohort called Writing Corps ✍ Have I mentioned this before? Even so, it's an exchange between a handful of us volunteers in which we share and critique each other's work. It's good for me because I need to be pushed by deadlines when it comes to my fiction. Pretty sure I mentioned that I plan on earning an MFA in creative writing when I get back, right? But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Fun fact: this is the first blog post I've written on my phone since Kandid Kandor's "My Only San Francisco Piece" wish was among my favorite of the old blog. That was a lot of eavesdropping on nearbyb patrons while Robin fed me drinks for free. I was also told before entering that if I planned on coming back that weekend, I'd better be dressed to meet the standards of Bond Bar's dress code. It was, I guess, about a week after the tour's end, and I was wearing my ratty military green shirt, short black shorts, and a three month beard. Good thing it was Thursday. After that I went for the best tacos in SF next door, Pancho Villa, in Mission District. I had no idea that four years later I'd be eating tacos that good on the reg.
Ok. The concession stand line is long, and it's ten minutes to showtime. This turned out to be a nice little post. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you on the other side of tomorrow!
PS beware of the True Knot...
Cinépolis Plaza Pabellón Campestre
Queretaro, QRO
I woke up at 4:30 this morning and was on the bus by 5. Two bumpy, restless hours later we pulled into CAPU at Puebla. An hour later I was on a double-decker jumbo jet sans wings. It cost me ₱70, about tree-fiddy, and a couple hours for the early morning rumbling tremble to Puebla and ₱825, about 41 bucks, to glide in reclining luxury for six hours to Querétaro. Here we are together again for the first time since August. I can't wait to see everybody and reconnect over all that's happened at site.
I was among the first to check into the hotel and had time to kill. Upon opening the door I discovered that the room wasn't ready. At first I thought maybe Rob had beat me there and already broken in the room. But neither bed was made, and there were no towels. So I found a theater playing Doctor Sleep, told the front desk that the room wasn't ready, and set out on an hour walk to the theater. On the way I stopped at a tiny park with workout equipment and got a quick pump in. There I had a pleasant exchange, albeit one with few words, with Mexican security official passing time on a bench. I also had a wonderful conversation with my Uber driver Brandon on the way to the hotel. My Spanish is getting better every day; I speak quite fluently with certain people, yet stumble through talks with others. This isn't unlike my speaking ability in English.
I'm so excited for Doctor Sleep, for the movie theater experience in general. I wanted to see it in Puebla a few weeks back, but it didn't happen. I almost settled for a different flick at a closer theater, but made the right choice by making the walk down here from el centro. There are no theaters in Tepexi, and I feel deprived of a common US luxury, like Dustin and I felt on the road back in 2015. Going to the movies--our first, Jurassic World in Hutch, KS, my second was Inside Out ;)--sitting in front of the silver screen with an excessive amount of popcorn and soda and being whisked away from your reality, is a "dose of normalcy" that helps me unwind and recharge my batteries. Anyway, the book was amazing, and I'm excited for the movie. Because of the book, I, not as often as I should, "get kneebound" in the morning and asked God for help, then give thanks at night. I sometimes feel more invested in worlds of fiction than I do this reality. Speaking of "other worlds than these..."
You're dying to know about Ignacio the lantern fish, I know. Well, you're going to have to wait because, because maybe you'll read it some day. Send me positive vibes to finish it. It doesn't have to be good, it just needs to be finished. It can be made good later, because, as you know, writing is rewriting. We have a good thing going in our cohort called Writing Corps ✍ Have I mentioned this before? Even so, it's an exchange between a handful of us volunteers in which we share and critique each other's work. It's good for me because I need to be pushed by deadlines when it comes to my fiction. Pretty sure I mentioned that I plan on earning an MFA in creative writing when I get back, right? But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Fun fact: this is the first blog post I've written on my phone since Kandid Kandor's "My Only San Francisco Piece" wish was among my favorite of the old blog. That was a lot of eavesdropping on nearbyb patrons while Robin fed me drinks for free. I was also told before entering that if I planned on coming back that weekend, I'd better be dressed to meet the standards of Bond Bar's dress code. It was, I guess, about a week after the tour's end, and I was wearing my ratty military green shirt, short black shorts, and a three month beard. Good thing it was Thursday. After that I went for the best tacos in SF next door, Pancho Villa, in Mission District. I had no idea that four years later I'd be eating tacos that good on the reg.
Ok. The concession stand line is long, and it's ten minutes to showtime. This turned out to be a nice little post. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you on the other side of tomorrow!
PS beware of the True Knot...
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Tianguis and a Quinceañera
24-November-2019, Sunday, 5:49 PM CDT
I come to you, Constant Reader, with one week left in my first semester as an English professor at TEC Tepexi--one week left for me anyway. A week from now I'll be back in Queretaro for early in-service training (EIST). It's remarkable, the fact that my service is about a quarter of the way through. EIST is a milestone for all PCVs and an exciting time for our cohort to get together and talk about things more tangible when compared to all the theory we had to rely on during PST. To be honest, I could really use the week of EIST to teach my students. Right now between sporadic student attendance and school events, planning has been difficult. We'll have to rush through that last two units--not something I want to do, but, as the saying goes--ya gotta do what ya gotta do.
Aside from our first semester together coming to an end, the highlight of this week was my first trip to the market. Wow. What a wonderland that place is! Every Tuesday morning, all roads in the region lead to Tepexi the tianguis or open-air market. This was my second trip overall but first alone as a big boy buying his own groceries, and I think I did pretty good. I struggled to the taxi with my haul which included black beans, bananas, rice, mezcal 😀, almonds, raisins, eggs, oats, onions, peppers, garlic, a box of milk cartons, ginger, jitomates, and more. La plaza--as it's called in Tepexi because there's another place in town known as "el mercado"--is magical. I felt like I was walking into the Bloomsburg Fair the atmosphere was so festive. Live music or in radio playing cumbia or mariachi or banda, aromas of frying chicharon, fresh cut flowers, and the wholesome scent of tortillas heating up, all kinds of people walking here and there, conscious consumers aware of the uniformly better pricing there than in town. I sampled some mezcal and chatted with some locals and was offered a barbacoa taco (goat) on the house by a family that I knew. What a great first trip it was, and I can't wait to go back this Tuesday.
Quick aside: the Spanish word "anteayer." It means "the day before yesterday," and it's a shame we don't have an equivalent word in English. Such a useful word. Any suggestions for one in English? After all, remember, all words are "made-up." How about...I don't know...yonderday? Not at all married to the offer, just trying to spark the discussion that leads to its coinage. Remember once again, there are no bad suggestions while brainstorming in a group (there are actually, but it's detrimental to the process to say so).
¿Que mas? Oh yeah, la quinceañera, talk about throwing the house through the window.* If you've never been to a quinceañera, you can't know the extent of their significance. I went to one a few weeks ago but didn't stay long, but stayed for the first band at this one on Saturday. Huge tents, hundreds of people, food for days, bands, fancy dresses for the girls who're taking their first step toward adulthood, an escort of young men also formally dressed accompany them, choreographed dances, a table full of candies swarmed when the announcement is made, tables of gifts and cakes and dancing into the night. I got to dance with the honorary young lady last night, and I learned a few more steps by dancing with my cousins and other guests at the party. Dancing is a skill that is prevalent here; most people have at least a basic level of the many differents steps danced throughout an array of occasions. I hope to be a better partner dancer by the time I leave. You, Constant Reader, probably already know of my...propensity for solo dancing.
So I spent last night in La Colonia, where I used to live with my family, the Aranguthies. I'd been feeling pretty lonely at times since moving out, so it was nice to reunite with them. This morning, at 7:30, I joined them more mass on the mountain. I don't go to church often, but it's nice to go once in a while and be reminded that you're an insignificant, misguided sheep of this universe under the auspices of the cosmic shepherd--plus, there were tamales and coffee afterwards, so you can't beat that. I often joke and tell people that I came to Mexico for the food. All jokes contain at least a trace of honesty, and in this one it's more like a heap of honesty--I love Mexican food. I won't become a taco snob when I return to the US, but I will always knows that we can't do tacos there like they do them here.
Ok, I know I said last week that I'd have a post comprised entirely of a random wrap-up, but you should know of my flakiness by now, Constant Reader. At a later date I'll write it. I need to take better notes throughout the week in order to deliver a wrap-up sufficiently random. I've also had an idea of posting an Mexican Flora album, which I will do in time. I first have to take a collection of photos that showcases some of the many types of beautiful flowers here. Well, it's late and I'm tired. My first last week of class is tomorrow, so I need to rest up. It's time to run through the finish line. Till next time. Keep your stick on the ice.
*"tirar la casa por la ventana" is a Spanish phrase translated literally above, but it means to pull out all the stops or go all out for someone or something, spare no expense, "Efforts must be doubled." - Finch.
I come to you, Constant Reader, with one week left in my first semester as an English professor at TEC Tepexi--one week left for me anyway. A week from now I'll be back in Queretaro for early in-service training (EIST). It's remarkable, the fact that my service is about a quarter of the way through. EIST is a milestone for all PCVs and an exciting time for our cohort to get together and talk about things more tangible when compared to all the theory we had to rely on during PST. To be honest, I could really use the week of EIST to teach my students. Right now between sporadic student attendance and school events, planning has been difficult. We'll have to rush through that last two units--not something I want to do, but, as the saying goes--ya gotta do what ya gotta do.
Aside from our first semester together coming to an end, the highlight of this week was my first trip to the market. Wow. What a wonderland that place is! Every Tuesday morning, all roads in the region lead to Tepexi the tianguis or open-air market. This was my second trip overall but first alone as a big boy buying his own groceries, and I think I did pretty good. I struggled to the taxi with my haul which included black beans, bananas, rice, mezcal 😀, almonds, raisins, eggs, oats, onions, peppers, garlic, a box of milk cartons, ginger, jitomates, and more. La plaza--as it's called in Tepexi because there's another place in town known as "el mercado"--is magical. I felt like I was walking into the Bloomsburg Fair the atmosphere was so festive. Live music or in radio playing cumbia or mariachi or banda, aromas of frying chicharon, fresh cut flowers, and the wholesome scent of tortillas heating up, all kinds of people walking here and there, conscious consumers aware of the uniformly better pricing there than in town. I sampled some mezcal and chatted with some locals and was offered a barbacoa taco (goat) on the house by a family that I knew. What a great first trip it was, and I can't wait to go back this Tuesday.
Quick aside: the Spanish word "anteayer." It means "the day before yesterday," and it's a shame we don't have an equivalent word in English. Such a useful word. Any suggestions for one in English? After all, remember, all words are "made-up." How about...I don't know...yonderday? Not at all married to the offer, just trying to spark the discussion that leads to its coinage. Remember once again, there are no bad suggestions while brainstorming in a group (there are actually, but it's detrimental to the process to say so).
¿Que mas? Oh yeah, la quinceañera, talk about throwing the house through the window.* If you've never been to a quinceañera, you can't know the extent of their significance. I went to one a few weeks ago but didn't stay long, but stayed for the first band at this one on Saturday. Huge tents, hundreds of people, food for days, bands, fancy dresses for the girls who're taking their first step toward adulthood, an escort of young men also formally dressed accompany them, choreographed dances, a table full of candies swarmed when the announcement is made, tables of gifts and cakes and dancing into the night. I got to dance with the honorary young lady last night, and I learned a few more steps by dancing with my cousins and other guests at the party. Dancing is a skill that is prevalent here; most people have at least a basic level of the many differents steps danced throughout an array of occasions. I hope to be a better partner dancer by the time I leave. You, Constant Reader, probably already know of my...propensity for solo dancing.
So I spent last night in La Colonia, where I used to live with my family, the Aranguthies. I'd been feeling pretty lonely at times since moving out, so it was nice to reunite with them. This morning, at 7:30, I joined them more mass on the mountain. I don't go to church often, but it's nice to go once in a while and be reminded that you're an insignificant, misguided sheep of this universe under the auspices of the cosmic shepherd--plus, there were tamales and coffee afterwards, so you can't beat that. I often joke and tell people that I came to Mexico for the food. All jokes contain at least a trace of honesty, and in this one it's more like a heap of honesty--I love Mexican food. I won't become a taco snob when I return to the US, but I will always knows that we can't do tacos there like they do them here.
Ok, I know I said last week that I'd have a post comprised entirely of a random wrap-up, but you should know of my flakiness by now, Constant Reader. At a later date I'll write it. I need to take better notes throughout the week in order to deliver a wrap-up sufficiently random. I've also had an idea of posting an Mexican Flora album, which I will do in time. I first have to take a collection of photos that showcases some of the many types of beautiful flowers here. Well, it's late and I'm tired. My first last week of class is tomorrow, so I need to rest up. It's time to run through the finish line. Till next time. Keep your stick on the ice.
*"tirar la casa por la ventana" is a Spanish phrase translated literally above, but it means to pull out all the stops or go all out for someone or something, spare no expense, "Efforts must be doubled." - Finch.
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Thinking About Editing the Description of this Blog...
Sunday, 17-November-2019, 8:09 PM CDT
...editing "weekly" to "biweekly." I'm tired of you hounding me about not posting every Sunday. It didn't even crossed my mind last week until a day after. It'd be so easy, too, just a few clicks of the mouse and few taps of some keys and vuala, a new standard. I guess it is that easy to change our standards in everyday* life as well. Decide you want to work less or exercise less and poof , done, that easy, standard lowered. And what's the big deal? Practice your skill, whatever it is--fishing, woodworking, sailing--practice an hour or two less each week and what's going to happen? No pasa nada, todo bien. You might not achieve your dreams as a result, but what's the big deal about achieving dreams, anyhow? Having a stable, rewarding, challenging, worthy job, decent health, and a even more healthy family--that's the real dream, hain't? That ideal vision of the future you have for yourself as a professional whatever, that's, well that's...
I've been writing a story in Spanish with about the same consistency and dedication of those I've written in English. Man, if you think writing reader-worthy fiction in your native language is hard, try writing it in a second one. Despite the difficulty with which I write and the trudging pace at which the story is progressing, there's a decent network of plot I got going on. I'm going to share some of it with you. But...I've come back to this part of the draft after finishing it and now don't feel like translating the excerpt. What? Come on. Cut me a break. My butt hurts and my breath stinks from the inaugural meal of sardine, black bean, jalapeno tacos (I'm living in my own place now, hence the "inaugural meal" talk). But listen, I'm going to post the Spanish version below. You can translate it if you want to get an idea, and next week--or whenever--I'll give you the real deal. How easy it is to translate something you've written.
"Un día, bajo el mar, un grupo de peces linternas comían en paz. De repente, llegaron unos delfines entrando y saliendo en todas direcciones como unas balas. Devoraron diez peces con cada ataque. Porque había muchos peces en el grupo, miles de millones, lo seguro fue permanecer con el grupo y correr el riesgo. Lo más probable fue que sobrevivieras el ataque. Pero uno pez linterna no era valiente. Ignacio se asustó cuando sus amigos fueron comidos. Ignacio él mismo fue casi comido, pero él se escapó del delfine sin parte de su cola. Ignacio tuvo miedo y nervios. Decidió salir del grupo, algo que ningún pez había hecho antes de él. Ningunos peces notaron que Ignacio nadaba fuera de sincronía con su grupo. Él estuvo un trozo de caos en una sinfonía acosado con pestes mortales. Pero la sinfonía continuó tocar, por este momento debido al hecho de que ellos habían practicado , practicaron sin pensamiento o palabras entre ellos . Ignacio nadaba todo derecho mientras todas los demás nadaban juntos esto y aquello camino. Sus compañeros le golpearon y le preguntaron a dónde iba pero no pensaron en seguirlo. Después de una curva rápido del grupo, Ignacio estaba solo, cara a cara con un delfín por un instante,Luego, sin que el delfín le vio, porque Ignacio era fácil de olvidar, el asesino de torpedo disparó hacia el grupo. Ignacio veía mientras su familia y sus amigos nadaban lejos, incontable delfines disparaban por la masa bailando . Luego él estuvo solo y rodeado de un mundo de azul oscuro y un vasto desconocido."
The first few months at site were blessedly healthy for me. I didn't have any problems with diarrhea or anything, but the past two weeks were different. After watching Shamokin's tough loss to MCA on YouTube, I was inundated by a horrendous migraine, I mean it was debilitating. It came on that night, and I hardly slept. The pain was constant and dull, like a metal finger was being hydraulically pressed into my forehead with just the right amount of force. I stayed in bed throughout the day, unwilling and hardly able to do anything--thankfully it was the weekend. After talking to an excellent member of the Peace Corps Mexico medical staff, una Nica, Mariano, he prescribed me some OTC migraine meds. They were sublingual and tasted like bitter Tic-Tacs (orange of course). The meds worked about as gradually as a season change, and I was back on my feet for class on Monday. I rarely get migraines that bad--I'm talking like once every few years--so, call me crazy, but I honestly believe it was brought on by another year without the Coal Bucket. Being so far from Kemp Memorial and that close, yet again, to bringing it home, I was devastated. Part of me didn't want to win because I wanted to be in town for the epic celebration, but that selfish part of me was outweighed by the part that wanted to win for the kids, the school, and the town. Alas, another edition of the consolatory "maybe next year."
On Thursday I went to Puebla City to report an address change. I was mentally prepared to take the bus but found a coworker with a car who was also making the the two hour trip (in a bus it's closer to four with a real feel of about eight). I got to immigration ten minutes before open and was about the tenth party in line. It was a bit strange to see people of varying skin colors. Tepexi is a small town. Everybody's brown just like, mostly, everybody's white in Shamokin, PA. A palette of humanity was represented in the line, and it was nice to see. The wait was short and the process was smooth--the latter thanks to the footwork of PC Mexico staff. My coworker Dani and ran some errands afterwards, and I had my first craft beer in Mexico, a stout--a little flat and nothing to write home about but a stout nonetheless. I also had a Mexican pizza and a gas station sandwich on the trip. Well wouldn't you know I was knocked out again, but this time the problem was more southerly, more...messy. I spewed, I pooed, and I was again bed-bound for the remainder of Thursday and immediately after class on Friday. We were told that our service would include "high highs" and "low lows," but isn't that how life always is for most of us?
The biggest news this week is me moving into a new place. My time with the la familia Aranguthy en la Colonia was fantastic, and I didn't move far because I will be visiting them often. Plus, my favorite dog of theirs, Longara, just had puppies, so I need to go back soon and let them crawl all over me and lick my face while I lie helpless on the ground from cuteness overload. Anywho, the place is small, just one big room with a bed, table, armoire, and full bath before I moved in. Now I have a fridge, two beds conjoined, and another table. It's not much, but it's all I need. The shower drains slowly and water spills into the main room, and the windows have no screens yet, so it gets a little stale and warm, but these faults will be fixed in time. Poco a Poco. A little patience goes a long way. Live with less for a while and you'll appreciate it when--or if 😕--you earn more.
Ok, that's all for now.
What? No Random Wrap-Up? They're my favorite part of the blog.
I know. They are great. Next week, or maybe next post is better, "Poco a Poco: Random Wrap-Up Edition."
Yay! You gonna change the description or what? Gonna improve less and be less disciplined? Shouldn't be a problem.
Who invited you to this blog anyway?
😉
¡Hasta la próxima!
*I spell "everyday" when used as an adjective and "every day" for the noun phrase. E.g. "Every day, everyday people like you and me chip a tooth on peanut brittle."
Sunday, November 3, 2019
My First Mexican Beach, an Anniversary, a Dead Snake
Why hello, readers, whoever you are, wherever you are, and welcome to the latest edition of Poco a Poco. I went quiet last week, I know, and the week before, I know. Do you want to hear an excuse or shall we just get on with it? Yeah, just get on with it. Two weekends ago I visited my first Mexican shore, Chachalacas, a small beach town in the state of Veracruz. I went with my friend Arturo and his family. We left their home in Mendoza City, Veracruz at 5:30 AM and were in the ocean by 8. The water was warm and the weather was hot, even for eight in the morning.
From Chachalacas we travelled south to the Port of Veracruz, where it grew extremely hotter. We went for lunch at the Fisherman's Market where we ate delicious seafood. To start, I had a cocktail with so many good things--shrimp, oysters, amazing salsa, cilantro and onion, avocado, octopus, and crackers. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. After the cocktails we ate fish that Arturo bought next door. The fish was also delicious and served in creamy white sauce. We washed it all down with Modelo Negras.
After lunch we explored the Port of Veracruz some more. We had nieve from the famous chain called "Gueros." "Nieve" literally means "snow" in English, and it's some awesome combination of ice cream and snow cones. I felt like I belonged in Gueros because of my skin color and affinity for nieve. It felt like the employees were calling to me specifically as the invited tourists to cool down with a frosty treat. Their calls included only one word, repeated in rapid succession, "guero guero guero guero." I responded like a dog being called with a treat.
The coast wasn't the only highlight of my weekend in Veracruz. Close to Mendoza City is Orizaba, where there's a zoo that runs along the river that flows through town. We rode the Teleférico (aerial lift) to the top of the mountain and took in the beautiful scenery on the way. Lunch in the market was delicious, a quesadilla with chorizo mmmm and we saw a reclusive old man that's said to have millions of dollars though he appears poor. Arturo took me to a lagoon with the most beautiful clear blue, freezing water and we visited the former home of Maximilian I of Mexico.
Back in Tepexi classes were cancelled for all but one day this past week. We celebrated the 23rd Anniversary of the university with A LOT of dancing, a pageant for Miss Tepexi, a contest to see which major could make the best ofrenda , a 5k race race around town, and much more. It was nice to take a break from everyday teaching and learning, but I'm ready to get back at it tomorrow--even if some of the students aren't.
And the big event this weekend was Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), the closest holiday Mexico has to Halloween, though their similarities are few. If you've seen Coco you have an idea of what this holiday is about. It's basically about honoring and remembering your dead relatives. Yesterday morning, Saturday, ten of us crammed into a Tracker and drove up to town. The cemetery was full of people visiting their relatives. Altars were covered in flower petals, candles, crosses, and other adornments. We brought a container of water and used a flower to sprinkle it on the altar. I would have loved to see the cemetery all lit up at night, but the ceremony in Tepexi takes place during the day.
After visiting the relatives we went across the street to a parking lot that is usually vacant but this day was shaded by two giant tents. Under the tents were hundreds of people eating tacos, quesadillas, gorditas, chicharron, cemitas, things fried. Music played from radios and from musicians live in the wonderful shade. Enchanting scents of food filled the place. Vendors circulated selling cheese, chips, peanuts, toys, and more. It was a marvelous sight.
My family and I bought some groceries and headed up to the cabin that overlooks town. On the way, I spotted a snake in the road. My cousin Jesus and I got out of the car. I wasn't sure what we were going to do, but I should have been. At first we thought it was a rattler, but it turned out not to be, just a python about five feet long and angry with our interrupting her harmless slither across the rocky road. Chucho got a stick from the bush while she just stayed there curled up in defense. He told me to distract her because she was paying too much attention to him, but my efforts failed; she knew who the threat was. He trapped her neck and maybe told me to grab her, but I wasn't sure what he said so I just stayed put. Uncle Benja was filming from the tracker behind us. He carefully got her by the neck and squeezed. Her body was wrapped around his solid arm in no time. As we walked up to the cabin Jesus didn't allow her to breath by tightly pinching her airway. I unwrapped her failing yet strong body from his arm. She felt cold and smooth. Even in her dying moments she tried to defend herself by wrapping around his arm again. I unwrapped her a second time, and she hadn't the strength to try again. Once we got to the cabin, we locked her up in a bag and put her aside. They told me she'd yield 500 pesos (about 25 bucks) at the market.
Up the cabin Chucho and I gathered wood to fuel that fire that cooked pig skin and pork in a giant clay vat filled with oil. We added salt, jabaneros, orange juice, a few splashes of mezcal, and some leaves I couldn't identify. The meat cooked for what seemed like hours, and we drank Victoria and mezcal and chatted in the meantime. By the time it was ready, and I a little tipsy, the rest of the partygoers had arrived and we ate ourselves to death in honor of the day.
Ok now for the Random Wrap-Up. After handling the snake, we washed our hands with dirt because we had no soap, at yesterday's party I held hands with a 101 year-old woman who couldn't hear and could only see you if you stood just so in the line of her deteriorated sight, a few people have told me my Spanish accent is European which is cool to me but I don't know why, another person told me I was a good drinker which means a lot coming from a Mexican, students here ask permission before entering the room, a custom so engrained even the adult learners I teach do it, my three year-old niece doesn't yet have the r sound down yet so she calls me Coney hahaha, my favorite dog of the house, Longara, is pregnant again, que mas?, I found a place that I should be moving into in a few weeks 1,300 pesos a month (about $65) and it includes hot water, internet, and furniture--no kitchen, though, and I only have about a month of instruction until my first semester as an English teacher in Mexico is over. Wow.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you drop by next time. Hasta luego.
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Mezcal > Tequila
Sunday, 13-October-2019, 7:34 PM CDT
Hello and welcome to another edition of Poco a Poco. This week has been great. I am seeing the students improve their English, and my level of Spanish is now, more or less, communicative. I showcased my adequacy today during my apartment search/tour of Tepexi. It's not a big town, somewhere in size and population between Trevorton and Shamokin, but I walked around all of it today. If you want to learn a new language you need to practice with native speakers whenever possible. There's no greater practice than cold-calling around your new town asking if anyone knows of rooms or apartments for rent. Turns out a lot of people did.
I walked from my family's home in La Colonia to town, about twenty minutes, and just started asking people I saw. Being, I think, the only guero (white person) in town, people are interested in talking to me, which is great because that's what I need to improve my Spanish. I met two guys in a garage who were just hanging out on battered couches drinking Modelos and enjoying their Sunday afternoon. I asked if they knew of any places, and they did. They drove me around town and introduced me to several property owners. I even found some that meet the Peace Corps's strict criteria housing. Oscar had spent fourteen years living in New York City so had good English. He even knew of the many quality junkyard in NEPA. Luis didn't speak English but asked me to teach him. He understood when I told him I can only teach at TEC.
Oscar and Luis's behavior was typical for Mexico from what I've seen during my...four months here. Mexicans are friendly, hospitable, willing to help, treat you like a friend upon meeting you. I received a similar reception when I visited San Pablo with some of my co-workers on Friday.
I often accept invitations without really knowing what's going to happen wherever I'm going (think I already mentioned this buy 🤷🏽). This was the case when I was invited by the business department to tour some Mezcalarias. Turns out they're wanting to start their own mezcal operation on campus (as far as I understand). I know you're asking, Constant Reader, "What is mezcal, Kory?" Glad you asked. You can find out more about it here. But basically it's like tequila except better, and I've somehow developed a taste for it.
I didn't sleep much Thursday night, so I was beat all day Friday. It was about an hour drive to San Pablo from Tepexi. A chunk of the trip was spent weaving down a sinuous mountain road. I only remember flashed because I was sleeping but occasionally I'd wake up and see turns that all looked the same. One time I woke up and there was a new person in the car, didn't even know how she got there. San Pablo reminded me of Telluride, CO. It's nestled in the mountains and isolated with only one way in and one way out. But instead of film festivals, skiing, and rich people with vacation homes, San Pablo has donkeys, tiendas, and mezcal.
It took us an hour to find someone to show us their operation. We met a man with skinny legs and few teeth who led us through his home, while inviting to return whenever we'd like, and out back to his mezcal shed. It had walls of sheet metal and smelled like a landfill. It was then I realized that mezcal is Mexican Moonshine. He's not currently producing but answered all our questions with laughs and smiles. I'm not totally sure, but I think he was a little nervous to be sharing so much in front of me, an agent of the US government. I assured him he had nothing to worry about as I have no power to initiate legal action against him for his time in the US.
We later found a guy who welcomed us with a Coke bottle full of clear liquid with the slightest golden tinge. Mezcal--the drink of macho Mexican men. While he and my co-workers talked, I listened and "played from a distance" with his children who were reluctant to approach me. As they snuck around one corner of the house for perks, I'd quickly look over and "catch" them. Then they'd run and hide. I like talking with the children here; I feel like pressure with them when compared with adults.
This new guy (forget his name too) took us to his operation, which was much more legit than the first. There was a big pit in the ground called "el horno" or "the oven" filled with pieces of piña. "Piña" is pineapple but they refer to stocks of agave ad "piña" probably because it resembles the tropical fruit. The owner lifted up a window flap and revealed his partner chopping up piñas with a machete. A small TV and a single lightbulb illuminated the workspace, which included a cot for those long nights of chopping. One end of the space was filled with blackened piñas, which also resemble the turning spits of meat known as tacos pastor aquí en México. In the next room, we saw the some later steps of the process.
This room had three rows of barrels filled with fermenting piña. Bring your hand to certain barrels and watch all the fruit flies flee like diseases from the mouth of John Coffey in The Green Mile. Put your ear to others and hear the fermentation occurring like little slimy footsteps down a wet hallway. Put your nose to the mush and smell the bittersweet aroma of alcohol in the making. Touch the...nevermind. I didn't touch the mush, but we did have another round here. Mezcal is somehow sweet and vicious at the same time, like a puppy that bites off chunks of your ear while cuddling. Here there's a saying that translates to, "For everything bad, mezcal. For everything good, mezcal." To some, it's believed to have medicinal purposes, such as helping with digestion after a meal of spicy food mmmmmmm.
Ok now for some random stuff. I eat grasshoppers down here on the reg, and today I went grasshopper hunting with my family which was awesome. I continue to play a lot of basketball and see improvement as a baller as well as a shot-caller--I mean Spanish speaker. Our team is in the finals next week, and I hope to contribute more than I have in past games. TEC Tepexi is getting a new director, a change in leadership caused by none other than everybody's favorite necessary? evil--politics. Here it's common to put your head on the right side during hugs, whereas the left is more common in the US, no? Habaneros are spicier than jalapeños, but the latter cause more heartburn. Guero/a is not only a name for white people from the US but also for Mexicans who have--or used to have--light skin. I am, slowly, reading El Viejo y El Mar por Ernest Hemingway because I've read it in English and because his simple prose is a good fit for my level.
Ok. Till next time. ¡Adiós!
Hello and welcome to another edition of Poco a Poco. This week has been great. I am seeing the students improve their English, and my level of Spanish is now, more or less, communicative. I showcased my adequacy today during my apartment search/tour of Tepexi. It's not a big town, somewhere in size and population between Trevorton and Shamokin, but I walked around all of it today. If you want to learn a new language you need to practice with native speakers whenever possible. There's no greater practice than cold-calling around your new town asking if anyone knows of rooms or apartments for rent. Turns out a lot of people did.
I walked from my family's home in La Colonia to town, about twenty minutes, and just started asking people I saw. Being, I think, the only guero (white person) in town, people are interested in talking to me, which is great because that's what I need to improve my Spanish. I met two guys in a garage who were just hanging out on battered couches drinking Modelos and enjoying their Sunday afternoon. I asked if they knew of any places, and they did. They drove me around town and introduced me to several property owners. I even found some that meet the Peace Corps's strict criteria housing. Oscar had spent fourteen years living in New York City so had good English. He even knew of the many quality junkyard in NEPA. Luis didn't speak English but asked me to teach him. He understood when I told him I can only teach at TEC.
Oscar and Luis's behavior was typical for Mexico from what I've seen during my...four months here. Mexicans are friendly, hospitable, willing to help, treat you like a friend upon meeting you. I received a similar reception when I visited San Pablo with some of my co-workers on Friday.
I often accept invitations without really knowing what's going to happen wherever I'm going (think I already mentioned this buy 🤷🏽). This was the case when I was invited by the business department to tour some Mezcalarias. Turns out they're wanting to start their own mezcal operation on campus (as far as I understand). I know you're asking, Constant Reader, "What is mezcal, Kory?" Glad you asked. You can find out more about it here. But basically it's like tequila except better, and I've somehow developed a taste for it.
I didn't sleep much Thursday night, so I was beat all day Friday. It was about an hour drive to San Pablo from Tepexi. A chunk of the trip was spent weaving down a sinuous mountain road. I only remember flashed because I was sleeping but occasionally I'd wake up and see turns that all looked the same. One time I woke up and there was a new person in the car, didn't even know how she got there. San Pablo reminded me of Telluride, CO. It's nestled in the mountains and isolated with only one way in and one way out. But instead of film festivals, skiing, and rich people with vacation homes, San Pablo has donkeys, tiendas, and mezcal.
It took us an hour to find someone to show us their operation. We met a man with skinny legs and few teeth who led us through his home, while inviting to return whenever we'd like, and out back to his mezcal shed. It had walls of sheet metal and smelled like a landfill. It was then I realized that mezcal is Mexican Moonshine. He's not currently producing but answered all our questions with laughs and smiles. I'm not totally sure, but I think he was a little nervous to be sharing so much in front of me, an agent of the US government. I assured him he had nothing to worry about as I have no power to initiate legal action against him for his time in the US.
We later found a guy who welcomed us with a Coke bottle full of clear liquid with the slightest golden tinge. Mezcal--the drink of macho Mexican men. While he and my co-workers talked, I listened and "played from a distance" with his children who were reluctant to approach me. As they snuck around one corner of the house for perks, I'd quickly look over and "catch" them. Then they'd run and hide. I like talking with the children here; I feel like pressure with them when compared with adults.
This new guy (forget his name too) took us to his operation, which was much more legit than the first. There was a big pit in the ground called "el horno" or "the oven" filled with pieces of piña. "Piña" is pineapple but they refer to stocks of agave ad "piña" probably because it resembles the tropical fruit. The owner lifted up a window flap and revealed his partner chopping up piñas with a machete. A small TV and a single lightbulb illuminated the workspace, which included a cot for those long nights of chopping. One end of the space was filled with blackened piñas, which also resemble the turning spits of meat known as tacos pastor aquí en México. In the next room, we saw the some later steps of the process.
This room had three rows of barrels filled with fermenting piña. Bring your hand to certain barrels and watch all the fruit flies flee like diseases from the mouth of John Coffey in The Green Mile. Put your ear to others and hear the fermentation occurring like little slimy footsteps down a wet hallway. Put your nose to the mush and smell the bittersweet aroma of alcohol in the making. Touch the...nevermind. I didn't touch the mush, but we did have another round here. Mezcal is somehow sweet and vicious at the same time, like a puppy that bites off chunks of your ear while cuddling. Here there's a saying that translates to, "For everything bad, mezcal. For everything good, mezcal." To some, it's believed to have medicinal purposes, such as helping with digestion after a meal of spicy food mmmmmmm.
Ok now for some random stuff. I eat grasshoppers down here on the reg, and today I went grasshopper hunting with my family which was awesome. I continue to play a lot of basketball and see improvement as a baller as well as a shot-caller--I mean Spanish speaker. Our team is in the finals next week, and I hope to contribute more than I have in past games. TEC Tepexi is getting a new director, a change in leadership caused by none other than everybody's favorite necessary? evil--politics. Here it's common to put your head on the right side during hugs, whereas the left is more common in the US, no? Habaneros are spicier than jalapeños, but the latter cause more heartburn. Guero/a is not only a name for white people from the US but also for Mexicans who have--or used to have--light skin. I am, slowly, reading El Viejo y El Mar por Ernest Hemingway because I've read it in English and because his simple prose is a good fit for my level.
Ok. Till next time. ¡Adiós!
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Where Do Unfinished Stories Go?
6-October-2019, 6:02 PM CDT, a Sunday
I'm sitting here struggling to think of what to write. If you believe in such a thing, you might be saying, "Oh, Kory, well, you have 'writer's block'." Well, CR, I don't think "writer's block" exists. I think lazy writers exist, writers who make excuses for themselves for why not to write. One popular excuse often mistaken for writer's block is "I don't know what to write about" or, even more ridiculous, "there's nothing to write about." Writer Darren Garmin would tell you that there is in fact too much to write about and that this is the real problem. Take this post for example. I sat here for about ten minutes before getting started, staring at the blank screen and listening to sounds float into my room through the only opening window I have. Dogs barking throughout the neighborhood, trucks carrying marble or onions roaring down the nearby highway, the gaudy, muffled voice of a Mexican game show host from a neighboring window. When there's "nothing to write about," write about what you hear--or see.
The window is a deliberate hole in the rock wall, the size and shape of a marble tile rolling down the highway. I've been told Italian companies buy marble from Tepexi and sell it under the guise of "Italian marble." That has a better ring in our consumer's ear, doesn't it? Italian marble. How fancy, how luxurious, how impressive to tell your status-obsessed friends or a young couple of potential buyers at an open house. It has a more prestigious connotation than Mexican marble, or does it not? Whoever was telling me all this, asked me why I thought it was so, such a disparity in perceived quality. I didn't know. The question, of course, was bigger than just the global economics of marble.
It has a frame of aged wood on hinges for keeping out the seldom cold breeze or frequent night-wandering cockroach. A yellow piece of stained glass fills the frame and shines brilliantly in the powerful Mexican sun. The square hole is covered by a screen, its edges reinforced from the outside with strips of a soda can. The cardinal directions are represented with rectangular pieces of stained glass, and they emit an ocean green-blue when receiving the sun's rays at midday.
Windows offer grand opportunities to see through to the other side. Too many of them and we feel exposed, not enough and we feel trapped. While we're resting in our beds on a cool night perfect for sleeping, they let the outside in. When the bitter cold reins and we're warming ourselves with each other, they keep the outside out. Anybody can look through your window. Is there someone looking through it right now? Or something? Did you check? Maybe. If you're one who's willing to believe, who's afraid possibilities could sprout into realities.
Lightning cracks the sky and echoes through the land. The window allows me a better hearing of the atmosphere's battle with itself. Lightning illuminates the stained glass but only for an instant--an instant which could be an eternity.
The stained glass that adorns the window, wonderfully cut and installed by Tio Benji, was crafted by a man whose name escapes me right now. He used to live in Mexico, around Juárez I think but again am not sure. This man travelled the world for the middle portion of his life, searching for interesting things to add to his collection. Nobody knew where he got his money form, or even if he used money to acquire his things or not. Odd things he acquired on his travels--shrunken heads, turquoise rocks the size of softballs chiseled into skulls, clay vessels from pre-colonial trade routes, chain mail, samurai swords, stuff that belonged in a museum, you know. By the time he was in his seventies, he had found himself, and his vast, valuable collection, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, settled into odd shop whose name also eludes me but is written somewhere.
One day he was sitting at his desk near the back of the shop translating an old Latin bible he'd found years ago in Albania. A boy walked in. His name was Ryan Cullen Fledge. While his mom was at the laundromat, he had gone to the library to return some books and get some new ones. He was a voracious reader at what? ten? eleven? years old. On his way to the laundromat, he had passed the same empty shop with dirty windows that had always been there. There had always been, for as long as he could remember anyway, a sign on the door that read, "CLOSED. Be back when the winds of Sereway blow cold once again." RCF had always thought this a peculiar message for a store owner to give. Where's Sereway? He had asked the long-time librarian--I don't know if I gave her a name, I'll have to check later--where Sereway was, but she had told him there was no such place. Why was the owner waiting for the "winds to blow cold once again" in this place? If it were somewhere on the UP, he surely would've been back by now, for the winds often blow cold off of Huron, Michigan, and Superior. Yes, the abandoned store on Main Street in..."Rupert" had always been a mystery to RCF, and as he was walking in, he was thinking that the mystery would finally end, that he'd finally get the chance to meet the owner and ask him--or her--where they'd been all this time, and what was going on in Sereway. His mind was so imbued with the curiosity children possess, an insatiable yearning to know more that too many adults lose somewhere along their walk through life.
When he heard the bell above the door ring, the old man set aside his work and moved his glasses from the tip of his bulbous nose to the top of his resilient head of long silver hair. Like RCF, he too had waited for this day. He walked slowly but on firm legs to meet the Savior of Sereway.
RCF didn't noticed the old man at the desk in the back of the shop. He was mesmerized by all the strange things in the odd shop. The boy might have been admiring a knight's helmet when he jumped at the soft voice behind him--and above him. When he turned to see the owner of the voice, books pinned against his little chest, he was eye to thigh with the man. His mouth opened involuntarily as he craned his neck to look up at the ancient mountain. At first, RCF was scared and felt like he was somewhere he was not allowed to be. Little did he know, he was right where he was meant to be, right where Sereway needed him to be.
As was everybody who encountered the old collector, RCF was enchanted by his mere presence, and sat enrapt in an old electric chair as he recounted his tail of the Chupacabra en las afueras de la ciudad de Juárez. When Ryan told the man he had to go meet his mom, that he was already ten minutes late and that she would be worried, the man told him that all the cool stuff on the shop floor was nothing compared with the treasures that waited behind the back office door. Ryan's mom was raising him to be responsible and wary of strangers. He had a funny feeling in his tummy about following the old man away from the exposure of the storefront windows. But that feeling just turned out to be curiosity, a harmless, natural feeling, right? A feeling, no, an intuition that when followed never yields any extraordinary consequences, whether they be good or bad. Deciding that he was experiencing another instance of curiosity, the same stirring that caused him to choose The Boy Hero of Canaan by Darren Garmin earlier in the library, he followed the old man to the back.
When they arrived, the collector stepped aside and gestured for RCF to stand square in front of the door. In the middle, near the top, Ryan saw a window just like the one you saw in the Facebook post when you followed this link, just like the one I gaze through when I don't know what to say next. Lights flashed on the other side of the door. He could see it when the stained glass flashed with its snap of illumination. On the other side of the door he heard the rumble of hooves and the stifled battlecries of valiant warrior atop huge and exotic beasts. Golden light also shone through the crack at the bottom of the door. A breeze wafted out from there, carrying with it the aromas of sweet grass and freshly-hunted boar turning on spits, dripping grease into fire, causing flames to dance even more. Ryan felt fire in his belly, too. He craved the meat, the tea brewed with the sweet grass, the feeling of a tame beast, his beast beneath him. He could not deny the allure of what lay beyond the door. It was the mystery as much as the sentient sensations that urged him forward. His mother ceased to exist, his little brother, the fledgeling, as well, the old man behind him and the books that had fallen to the floor. He forgot it all as he opened the door and walked into Sereway.
So. Where do unfinished stories go? Nowhere. They stay set in the disarray of your memory and wait loyally for your return. Just as the denizens of Sereway waited for the unknown savior to come when they so needed him.
I'm sitting here struggling to think of what to write. If you believe in such a thing, you might be saying, "Oh, Kory, well, you have 'writer's block'." Well, CR, I don't think "writer's block" exists. I think lazy writers exist, writers who make excuses for themselves for why not to write. One popular excuse often mistaken for writer's block is "I don't know what to write about" or, even more ridiculous, "there's nothing to write about." Writer Darren Garmin would tell you that there is in fact too much to write about and that this is the real problem. Take this post for example. I sat here for about ten minutes before getting started, staring at the blank screen and listening to sounds float into my room through the only opening window I have. Dogs barking throughout the neighborhood, trucks carrying marble or onions roaring down the nearby highway, the gaudy, muffled voice of a Mexican game show host from a neighboring window. When there's "nothing to write about," write about what you hear--or see.
The window is a deliberate hole in the rock wall, the size and shape of a marble tile rolling down the highway. I've been told Italian companies buy marble from Tepexi and sell it under the guise of "Italian marble." That has a better ring in our consumer's ear, doesn't it? Italian marble. How fancy, how luxurious, how impressive to tell your status-obsessed friends or a young couple of potential buyers at an open house. It has a more prestigious connotation than Mexican marble, or does it not? Whoever was telling me all this, asked me why I thought it was so, such a disparity in perceived quality. I didn't know. The question, of course, was bigger than just the global economics of marble.
It has a frame of aged wood on hinges for keeping out the seldom cold breeze or frequent night-wandering cockroach. A yellow piece of stained glass fills the frame and shines brilliantly in the powerful Mexican sun. The square hole is covered by a screen, its edges reinforced from the outside with strips of a soda can. The cardinal directions are represented with rectangular pieces of stained glass, and they emit an ocean green-blue when receiving the sun's rays at midday.
Windows offer grand opportunities to see through to the other side. Too many of them and we feel exposed, not enough and we feel trapped. While we're resting in our beds on a cool night perfect for sleeping, they let the outside in. When the bitter cold reins and we're warming ourselves with each other, they keep the outside out. Anybody can look through your window. Is there someone looking through it right now? Or something? Did you check? Maybe. If you're one who's willing to believe, who's afraid possibilities could sprout into realities.
Lightning cracks the sky and echoes through the land. The window allows me a better hearing of the atmosphere's battle with itself. Lightning illuminates the stained glass but only for an instant--an instant which could be an eternity.
The stained glass that adorns the window, wonderfully cut and installed by Tio Benji, was crafted by a man whose name escapes me right now. He used to live in Mexico, around Juárez I think but again am not sure. This man travelled the world for the middle portion of his life, searching for interesting things to add to his collection. Nobody knew where he got his money form, or even if he used money to acquire his things or not. Odd things he acquired on his travels--shrunken heads, turquoise rocks the size of softballs chiseled into skulls, clay vessels from pre-colonial trade routes, chain mail, samurai swords, stuff that belonged in a museum, you know. By the time he was in his seventies, he had found himself, and his vast, valuable collection, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, settled into odd shop whose name also eludes me but is written somewhere.
One day he was sitting at his desk near the back of the shop translating an old Latin bible he'd found years ago in Albania. A boy walked in. His name was Ryan Cullen Fledge. While his mom was at the laundromat, he had gone to the library to return some books and get some new ones. He was a voracious reader at what? ten? eleven? years old. On his way to the laundromat, he had passed the same empty shop with dirty windows that had always been there. There had always been, for as long as he could remember anyway, a sign on the door that read, "CLOSED. Be back when the winds of Sereway blow cold once again." RCF had always thought this a peculiar message for a store owner to give. Where's Sereway? He had asked the long-time librarian--I don't know if I gave her a name, I'll have to check later--where Sereway was, but she had told him there was no such place. Why was the owner waiting for the "winds to blow cold once again" in this place? If it were somewhere on the UP, he surely would've been back by now, for the winds often blow cold off of Huron, Michigan, and Superior. Yes, the abandoned store on Main Street in..."Rupert" had always been a mystery to RCF, and as he was walking in, he was thinking that the mystery would finally end, that he'd finally get the chance to meet the owner and ask him--or her--where they'd been all this time, and what was going on in Sereway. His mind was so imbued with the curiosity children possess, an insatiable yearning to know more that too many adults lose somewhere along their walk through life.
When he heard the bell above the door ring, the old man set aside his work and moved his glasses from the tip of his bulbous nose to the top of his resilient head of long silver hair. Like RCF, he too had waited for this day. He walked slowly but on firm legs to meet the Savior of Sereway.
RCF didn't noticed the old man at the desk in the back of the shop. He was mesmerized by all the strange things in the odd shop. The boy might have been admiring a knight's helmet when he jumped at the soft voice behind him--and above him. When he turned to see the owner of the voice, books pinned against his little chest, he was eye to thigh with the man. His mouth opened involuntarily as he craned his neck to look up at the ancient mountain. At first, RCF was scared and felt like he was somewhere he was not allowed to be. Little did he know, he was right where he was meant to be, right where Sereway needed him to be.
As was everybody who encountered the old collector, RCF was enchanted by his mere presence, and sat enrapt in an old electric chair as he recounted his tail of the Chupacabra en las afueras de la ciudad de Juárez. When Ryan told the man he had to go meet his mom, that he was already ten minutes late and that she would be worried, the man told him that all the cool stuff on the shop floor was nothing compared with the treasures that waited behind the back office door. Ryan's mom was raising him to be responsible and wary of strangers. He had a funny feeling in his tummy about following the old man away from the exposure of the storefront windows. But that feeling just turned out to be curiosity, a harmless, natural feeling, right? A feeling, no, an intuition that when followed never yields any extraordinary consequences, whether they be good or bad. Deciding that he was experiencing another instance of curiosity, the same stirring that caused him to choose The Boy Hero of Canaan by Darren Garmin earlier in the library, he followed the old man to the back.
When they arrived, the collector stepped aside and gestured for RCF to stand square in front of the door. In the middle, near the top, Ryan saw a window just like the one you saw in the Facebook post when you followed this link, just like the one I gaze through when I don't know what to say next. Lights flashed on the other side of the door. He could see it when the stained glass flashed with its snap of illumination. On the other side of the door he heard the rumble of hooves and the stifled battlecries of valiant warrior atop huge and exotic beasts. Golden light also shone through the crack at the bottom of the door. A breeze wafted out from there, carrying with it the aromas of sweet grass and freshly-hunted boar turning on spits, dripping grease into fire, causing flames to dance even more. Ryan felt fire in his belly, too. He craved the meat, the tea brewed with the sweet grass, the feeling of a tame beast, his beast beneath him. He could not deny the allure of what lay beyond the door. It was the mystery as much as the sentient sensations that urged him forward. His mother ceased to exist, his little brother, the fledgeling, as well, the old man behind him and the books that had fallen to the floor. He forgot it all as he opened the door and walked into Sereway.
So. Where do unfinished stories go? Nowhere. They stay set in the disarray of your memory and wait loyally for your return. Just as the denizens of Sereway waited for the unknown savior to come when they so needed him.
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