Search engine hits

I installed Google Analytics a week or two ago to track my site traffic, since I'm trying to break into some kind of readership for my other blogs (Idberry and the Online Earnings Challenge). Since it's free, I went ahead and installed it on this blog too. Funnily enough, I get more traffic for my personal ramblings than I do for my professional writing.

Well, when I went to check my stats today, I found a cool little surprise waiting for me: two site visits had been referred by a search engine, both of which were supposedly new visitors. One appears to have been a crawler that was backtracking links to thepolitic.com, but the other googled "pulqueria xalapa" (I'm the fourth page and the third site for that search term), read three pages deep and spent almost 20 minutes on my website.

I could assume this is someone interested in Xalapa who found my site fascinating, but I think I know who it is. I told her about the pulquería in Xalapa but never took her. In looking for it, she found my blog.

If you come back, I'm sorry I never mentioned you.

Observations about me and the world

Does anyone else think we might be making more dangerous enemies with this Guantánamo stuff?

Today on a stupid TV show my family always watches, a joke along these lines was made:

"Hijo, contesta la puerta, alguién está tocando!"
"No papa, no está tocando, está golpeandola. Mira, la toco y no sirve, hay que golpearla."

Hahahahaha. The joke works because there is no word in Spanish for "to knock." Instead, they use "tocar," which means "to touch." So the joke is "No Dad, he's not touching the door, he's hitting it! Look, if I touch it there's no sound." Doesn't work in English.

A few nights ago I packed half my luggage. I still have a week left here. I have never in my life packed for anything more than eight hours in advance. In fact, I think I finished packing for Mexico about fifteen minutes before I left for the airport. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something.

On being twenty-one

I have now been officially 21 for nearly 24 hours (or over 24 hours, depending on your time zone). I have technically been 21 years old for 1 hour and 49 minutes. I initially felt I should write something here, it being my birthday, but then changed my mind and decided to let the day pass without remark, since another year doesn't really give me anything more to say. Then I decided it's about time for me to make a post anyway, so I might as well make some twenty-first birthday post.

First, I cannot let Will's comment on my last post go unanswered. To do so would break our long-standing rapport regarding Des Moines, Iowa. So, for those of you who don't know, I absolutely loathe Des Moines, Iowa. It's supposed to be a state capital - and the largest city in the state - and it's got a population of a whopping 200,000 (actually, according to the official website of the Government of Des Moines, it's "approaching" that number). It is the answer to the question, "What if they built a city and nobody came?" You can see farmland from the sixth story of a downtown hotel. You can jaywalk with impunity. You can run a mile through the intricate system of skywalks pretending you have a gun and nobody will notice because there's nobody there. Perhaps Will can add his own commentary - I've left plenty of Des Moines suckages unstated.

With that out of the way, I'll move on to the relevant material: being twenty-one. Exciting, right? I can drink now! Well, I spent the last five months in Mexico, and I'm there now, so that's really not a big deal. Nobody cares about you turning 21 when the drinking age is 18. But it does feel like a turning point... kind of like when you turn 16 and you're a real teenager, even though you've been twixt twelve and twenty for four years. Now I'm fully into my twenties, and suddenly thirty is the next big number. That is, ironically, sobering.

I'm sure that those older than me, who I think comprise most of my readership, are quite disgusted with me right now.

My birthday was relatively uneventful. I did have a "surprise" party, during which I resigned myself to having my face shoved into cake. My nostrils still burn a little bit. This afternoon we went to El Salto de San Antón, a waterfall more or less near the school, and then to a nearby restaurant where Rob bought me a convento ("convent"), the restaurant's specialty rum-and-tequila drink. It came in a bowl. When I commented on the lack of strong alcoholic flavor, someone mentioned jungle juice, which led to my hypothesis that jungle juice is God's practical joke against freshmen. Apparently he lost track of my graduation year, though, because upon standing up I realized that beneath the drink's fruity facade lay a potent, balance-impairing substance that I have chosen to call C₂H₅OH.

Later that evening I had a beer with Rob and Ana María (my host mom), watched an episode of Friends, ate la cena, and wasted a bunch of time online. I received some 50 birthday wishes on Facebook, which makes me feel like a complete ass for never, ever, ever recognizing anybody's birthday.

Well, I do have some homework to do, and I'm starting to wonder based on my own tendency to skim if post length is inversely related to number of comments. So I'll leave it at that and go to sleep a 21-year-old.

Undercover operations

After a moderately successful 19-day period under the radar, I can now inform you that I am sitting on a not so comfy futon in Pirate House, North Manchester, Indiana. That's right, I'm not actually in Mexico. I had to keep you all in the dark as part of my elaborate operation to surprise my friends here on campus.

Some of them caught on, but my primary goal of making my ex-roommate Aaron flip out succeeded. So, please call, e-mail or comment if you are in North Manchester and want to hang out! If you don't get in touch with me I take no responsibility for us not spending quality time together because left to my own devices with so much to do, I'm likely to just sit on this futon and keep internetting away.

Or, if I'm really motivated, I might go to the Oaks and internet away while drinking a mocha.

So far my break has been mostly uneventful. I spent a little time with some of my friends in Goshen, but passed most of my time at home just staying in the house with my computer, my guitar, my brother, and our X-Box. The shocking life of a college student on break has now been exposed to you.

Since my blog theoretically has something to do with Mexico, I do have a couple more study-abroad related thoughts to share... I speak English. I speak a lot of English. I speak English with my American friends and my Canadian friends and, occasionally, with my Mexican friends. So any jokes about forgetting English are really not at all associated with the truth. I am, however, in social Spanish mode. By this I mean any day-to-day interactions beyond my friends are, I assume, to be conducted in Spanish. This first became apparent when I would have a thought that interested me academically and I'd imagine bringing it up in a class back at Manchester. "How would I express that in Spanish?" I find myself thinking, before realizing I don't have to. This phenomenon became all the more obvious as I traveled back to the States. If I had anything to ask of a flight attendant, a cashier, or a random person in the airport, I'd find the question forming in Spanish rather than in English. This worked in Mexico City, obviously, but it was less useful for the Dallas-Fort Wayne leg of the trip.

I could share plenty more about my travels (the stories are quite exciting and include, among other things, blinding snowstorms!) but I just secured a date for hot tea over at Elizabeth's. Hasta luego!

A photographical treat

I was thinking about making this a big long post with lots of photos and stories, but then I decided I just couldn't choose a handful of photos and leave all the other ones out. Also, my internet is being real slow. So here's another photo:

We had just come back from hiking up the mountain in Tepotzlán and had set off looking for some pulque, an alcohol older and more traditional in Mexico than tequila. That was a bad idea, but that's a story for another time. During our quest we found a touristy little shop that sold, among other things, about 857 different flavors of creamy alcohol, of which they were only too happy to bring us unsolicited free samples as long as we stood around pretending to consider buying things. Eventually they brought out these fancy goblets fashioned from a ram's horn, as you can see in the picture. We thought about waiting around to see if they'd bring us a cloak and sword, but as our wise BCA director Rob said, "We should leave before we get drunk and start buying shit."

Some countries are islands

Mexico is not an island. It has a massive northern border with the United States and a smaller southern border with Guatemala. Mexico has vibrant (if not healthy) trade relations with the U.S. thanks to NAFTA, and immigration from Mexico to the U.S. is the largest country-to-country immigration in the world. In fact, more Mexicans are living in other countries than are any other nationality. But sometimes you can still feel really alone here.

I don't write about my feelings based on the theory that nobody has the slightest interest in spending their time reading a website on which someone writes about his or her feelings. But as this blog is supposedly about frosting, cake, Mexico and me, I think in this case it applies.

I think there's a difference in attitude between year-long and semester-long BCA students. The semester students can't wait to get home. Some of them hate being here. Some of them talk eagerly of their upcoming returns to the United States. In contrast, the four year-long students love it here. We can't imagine ending our Mexican life in just two weeks. We're just getting started. Hell, we're still getting on our feet - how could we leave now? As such, I think homesickness has been more an issue for the short-termers, while we're more likely to just accept that we're building a life here.

I have not once felt homesick since I got to Mexico. Our BCA director at Manchester has this whole elaborate theory of the homesickness pattern, but I haven't found that it applies to me. Sure, I miss Manchester. Sometimes I get crazy and even miss Goshen (don't get me wrong, I love Goshen as a place - I just don't have much of a life there). But I never wish I weren't here, nor do I ever feel any pangs or longing to be somewhere else. No homesickness for me.

That is, until last night. I had an unpleasant conversation with my mom that left me feeling rather upset and alone. I couldn't talk to Dad, because he was really busy. I thought through my friends I felt I could talk to, and unfortunately several of them are, like me, in other countries and unreachable by phone. I tried a few friends in the U.S., but nobody picked up their phone. I was very, very alone. And it sucked.

I talked to Mom today, and things are looking up. Connection-wise, anyway. The fact remains that I literally have no money - an ATM stole my last $100 from the bank yesterday, and I have my doubts as to whether the bank is going to pay up. I'm getting back from BCA too late to secure a summer job, which means I'll be going into next year - renting an apartment and paying for food - completely broke. I hate money. I hate that a lack of it can threaten my plans - my ability to stay a second semester in Mexico, my ability to have an apartment next year. Going to annual conference is definitely out.

There is one bit of good news from last night, though. I stumbled across (okay, ruthlessly hunted down) this study. I'll quote the last paragraph for you: "These findings suggest that complete abstinence from alcohol during the acute and convalescent phases of viral hepatitis does not influence the final outcome of the disease in patients who are not chronic carriers. Moderate alcohol intake does not seem to be harmful."

Word.

Mexican Lava, American Pie

Classes were canceled yesterday because November 20 is el Día de la Revolución, so Rob, Norma, Amy, Jared and I went up to Volcancillo, an extinct volcano half an hour or so outside of Xalapa. Boy was that an awesome trip... we hiked up to the rim of the volcanic crater, which is basically like being on the edge of a cliff except the cliff encircles a huge crater. Then we crawled into a tiny lava tube and followed it down the hill a ways, at times having to lie on our backs and scoot ourselves along with the cave ceiling just inches from our noses. Claustrophobia, anyone? After that we went to a much bigger but far more out-of-the-way cave, where we had slow going because it wasn't exactly fixed up for tourists. Our only sources of light were four (and at times just two) candles, which we trusted to show us the difference between a rock we could step on and "the abyss" (in reality, usually just a gap where you could fall two or three feet, but still quite dangerous in our situation). We finished off the day by eating at a nearby restaurant, where I had rabbit. It doesn't taste bad, but I wouldn't recommend it - you're paying a lot for a rather pathetic quantity of meat.

Today turned out to be the worst day ever to take public transportation because, as you may have noticed, yesterday was just the 19th of November. Today was the real holiday, so the streets were jammed with parades and people standing around not doing anything. I understand the extended weekend mentality, but I really think they could have canceled classes today. I hopped into a yellow line colectivo (a van) because I was too lazy to walk to school, which turned out to be a big mistake. I started to realize this when the driver kept following 20 de noviembre (that's the street name) when he should have gone onto Xalapeños Ilustres. When I questioned him about this, he said not to worry. Apparently "don't worry" means "I'm taking you to the middle of fucking nowhere," because when I finally gave up and got out of the van I had absolutely no idea where I was. Trusting my innate ability to intuit the general direction of el centro, I wandered around for about an hour before finally finding familiar territory, forcing my way through crowds of people and arriving at the school, forty minutes late for class.

Thursday will be some sort of presentation at my school about various ethnic foods, an event in which students are encouraged to take part, bringing traditional dishes from their home countries. This begs a question that has come up several times here: is there really any traditional American food? We have a HUGE variety of food, and while you might attribute burgers and fries to a normal American diet, they're hardly traditional, nor are they unique to our fine country. I will venture so far as to claim that we do not, in fact, truly have traditional food, and I'll also speculate as to the reason: we're a nation of immigrants. Other western hemispheric nations, like Mexico, have notable indigenous populations with their own traditional dishes, as well as foods from the conquering lands (i.e. Spain). We, however, have virtually no remaining indigenous population (not to marginalize what American Indians are left), and our heritage is so diverse we don't have one or two countries providing native dishes. Our diet includes elements from Italy, France, England and Germany (and now even Mexico, another relatively new country). And while we can find a few stereotypical items like meatloaf and mashed potato items (or more accurately, corn and turkey), we really don't have much in the way of our own line of actual traditional dishes.

But then, nothing's more American than Apple pie!

(We also invented the burrito).

All things beyond my control

(Written yesterday and contains more interesting things than my smelly socks)

My room smells, and it is not a pleasant smell of daffodils or skunk (which I do appreciate). More like the kind of smell you'd expect from opening the 3-year-old gym bag you just found or sitting near the bathroom on a 10 hour bus ride in Mexico. I spent much of this morning following my nose around my room, attempting to locate its source. It's amazing how the human nose can pick up subtle smells from tiny particles, yet we never seem to be able to track down where they're coming from. I checked my shoes to see if they could be at fault (I do believe I walked through dried-out vomit on my way home last night), but they did not appear to be the focal point of the smell. I checked all corners of the room for dead animals. In the end, the culprit was clear: the socks I'd worn in the rain yesterday and put outside my window to dry had, due to what I can only assume was overnight rain, not done so, and the smell was wafting into the room. Mystery solved.

The socks weren't the only thing emitting a foul odor, though. Last night, as some of you might be aware, was a CNN Democratic presidential debate, starring Hillary Clinton, Barrack Obama, John Edwards, Bill Richardson, Dennis Kucinich, Chris Dodd and the unforgettable Joe Biden. I'm right there with all the pundits who say Clinton basically carried the debate - after weeks of Obama and Edwards taking shots at her, she showed up well-rested and well-spoken and managed to rise above the squabble, though not without a little help from Wolf Blitzer, who seemed to be keen on interrupting and patronizing everyone but her.

Obama and Edwards were just outright embarrassing. Obama spent the evening tripping over himself and failing to answer questions, while Edwards came across as hot-headed and angry. Joe Biden was his usual hilarious self, repeatedly saying things like "Let's just cut the crap, America doesn't care about this stuff" and being the only candidate to answer yes or no questions with a yes or no.

In my mind, the shining stars were Kucinich (who I always love) and, actually, Bill Richardson, who I hadn't paid much attention to before but now am starting to like. Richardson won my heart by saying "give peace a chance" and saying human rights should get a higher priority than percieved national security. Meanwhile, Kucinich just agrees with me on every issue out there.

A couple of my favorite moments:

Hillary Clinton was asked whether it was true that her campaign was playing the gender card. She said no, absolutely not, and that she's running for president not because she's a woman but because she's the best qualified candidate. She went on to tell an allegory of a 95-year-old woman who shakes her hand and says "I was born before women could vote, and I want to live long enough to see a woman be president."

How is that not playing the race card?

And finally, my favorite:

Moderator: "Mr. Kucinich, you're the only person on stage that had the opportunity to vote on the Patriot Act and voted against it..."
Kucinich: "Because I read it."

And, since this post is regarding all things beyond my control, I want to express dismay that I'm being charged 920 pesos (90 dollars) to replace the lens mechanism on my camera.

Finally, I continue to be frustrated by some comments apparently not showing up. Try leaving some and see what happens.