"Calme Te, Baby, Calme Te" (Pero yo soy nervioso...)

Do you remember the commercial with the skinny, white, trashy skankator (that's Rachel Leigh Cook?!) that cracked an egg with a frying pan and said, "This is your brain on drugs," then proceeded to go all Russell Crowe on the entire apartment, I guess to make the point that if you use drugs you will defintiely lose your damage deposit? Yeah, well, lately Mexico has done that same thing to me, and drugs weren't even involved. Perhaps my last post (which was like an angsty-emo fifteen year old complaining about contemporary society and how we're all sheep even though they all look like they're long lost gay cousins of Hitler) clearly showed that something is amiss in the Mex.

And it is.

I'm nervous.

"Nervous? You? But you are always so calm and cool and collected, and so suave and seductive and sexy and I want your body because you are so amazingly hot!" I know. It's a shock. (the faux quote and short following sentences were sarcasm - if you took them for anything but sarcasm, insert finger into sphincter and pry open for health purposes).

I am. I am nervous. I'm like Mary-Kate Olsen next to a buffet. A transition to any new setting - be it a foreign country, a new state or city, or marrying a fat girl - is difficult.

(Time for a short break in the action for an award I forgot. It's the "If You Tell Me One More Time I'm Experienceing Culture Shock Because I'm Having A Shitty Day, I'm Going To Punch You Square In The Mouth" award. Rather self-explanatory, with this caveat - when I'm rolling around on the floor repeating "Si, Hola, Gracias, Momma" while intermixing a garbled rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama" and sucking my thumb like there's a surprise in the middle of it, you may say that I'm experiencing culture shock. Otherwise, know your role and shut your hole.)

Nervousness - It happened on my first day of elementray school. It happened my first day of college. It happened my first day of student-teaching. It happened my first day of coaching. In fact, just about every day of my entire life, something has made me nervous. It happens - to everyone. It's part of our natural make-up (here is the scientific chart explaining nerves or the fun version). But perhaps, just maybe, this sustained nervousness, this long-lasting sensation of frolicking fluttering floating in my stomach is telling me something.

I like it here. No, no. Check that...I love it here.

Listen, do I understand 99.9% of what is being said around me? No. It's like trying to start a philisophical discussion on the ethical implications of race relations at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. Is learning a new language hard? Yeah. It's a bitch. Do I know a lot of people? Not really. Do I know where anything is located, or how to get there? Is school and its requirements overwhelming? Do I have to teach a group of students who speak poor English, at a grade level I'm not familiar with, in a school system that is literally foreign to me, in about 7 hours? And am I at all prepared?

But if you know me, you know this one thing - I crave a challenge. I crave competition. I'm the kid who got suspended for a basketball game in sixth grade for trying to punch a kid in the back of the head. I work best with my back against the wall, with the clock running down. Is it stressful? Yes. It is hard? Yes. And am I constantly nervous, more so than at any point in my life? Definitely. But I'm thriving. I love every last damn minute of it. Because when this is all said and done, whether that be in a year, or two years, or three, or so far down the road I figure I'll be worm meal by then, it will absolutely have been worth it. Because there are two types of people when it comes to doing what I'm doing right now: the "thanks, this has been fun, now I'm going to go back to where I came from and remember this with a picture on my mantle" kind of people and the "if I wanted a picture I could have bought a fucking postcard, so whatever happens, happens" people. I'd like to hope I'm falling in with the later crowd...

A few last tidbits to moisten your palette with:

• Saturday night was El Clasico, the semi-annual rivalry football (soccer) match between the two Monterrey teams - Rayados and Tigres. And while I do own a Rayados jersey, I enjoyed watching the game as a casual observer. Think Duke/UNC if you were a die-hard fan of either program. It was very much for me like the classic IU/Purdue games or even the more recent Colts/Patriots match-ups. Watching a room full of grown people cringe, scream, curse, and celebrate each touch of the ball as if Jesus H. Christ himself were returning to the Earth during the game was, from a sports fans perspective, incredible. I also enjoyed the fact that I think 6 people in the entire city were not wasted, which is always a plus. (BTW - Rayados won the match, 2-1)

• After the game, we ate at one of the many quaint, cheap little taco places that litter Monterrey. I had a campechana, which is like a small taco with steak and pork, with a side of onions and a smaller taco that is made of I-don't-know-what but is apparently like the "desert" taco, all smothered in spicy sauces that burns your mouth like your ass would be burnt by a midget with a match. That means it is hot (I just really like the "that burns my ass like a midget with a match" joke. Classic.) It was delicious and has quickly become one of my favorite foods. It is the second time I have eaten said dish, but as the below picture shows, I clearly do not remember the first time said meal was ingested.

• Finally, as I said earlier, I start school, well, now today. I'll be teaching 6th, 7th, and 8th grade literature and English, as well as 6th grade spelling. It's gonna be great. I'm as excited as a fat man on his wedding day.
  

The First Annual "My First Three Weeks In Mexico Awards Ceremony"

Tonight, I'm going to take some time to recognize those individuals and general happenings that deserve the recognition - both winners and losers. If your name is not called tonight, don't worry, these are useless awards that are a stand-in for me going all Howard Beale on your ass. Now, to the awards!

The "Hop Down Off The Shed Before the Shingles Burn Another Hole In Your Ass" Award:

• Those who complain about me not speaking Spanish, then dogging on me as I'm busting my ass to learn - You know, I'm not like some Americans who think everyone in their own country should speak English (see here, here, here, and anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line). I appreciate a variety of cultures and languages. I wish I had the capacity to learn multiple languages, but too much drinking and the crack-pipe smoking US education system and their pansy ass attempts at teaching foreign languages in schools have made that difficult. I came to Mexico knowing about six words - "Yes, No, Thank you, Hello, Goodbye, and 'Made in Mexico'." I knew less Spanish than a deaf, dumb, blind, mute Spaniard whose been raised by a pack of African pygmies. Let us just make that clear. And now, I can get around, have short, meaningful conversations with people, order food, buy things, etc. And let us also be clear that this gathering of language has taken place over the course of three weeks WHILST I was getting acclimated to a new place and getting ready to teach for the first time (in a foreign country no less) - and this learning was also facilitated by myself. I didn't take a class, or have some magical Matrix upload shoved in my ass and I didn't secretly study for hours on end under my blankets with a flashlight like some six-year old reading Spiderman comics. So when I attempt to speak or write Spanish, I would appreciate a little courtesy as you look down at me from your perch atop the shed. Gracias.

The "Shut Your Mouth in Public Award Because You Make the Other 299,999,999 of Us Look Bad" Award:

• Americans in Mexico - If you are American, and you are living in Mexico (or any other culture for that matter), take a moment and reflect: have I been a total, complete, utter jackass at any point in my stay? If your answer is yes, extend arm, open hand, and slap self in face repeatedly. Seriously. Open your eyes for six seconds (and not to stare at some 16 year-old Mexican girl like she's Penelope Pussycat in a thong). Look around. When you see Mexican citizens sitting quietly or shopping quietly or generally being respectful of others in a public setting, maybe you shouldn't come swaggering down the aisle in oversized flip-flops, baggy shorts (people here wear pants, Eminem), and your college's t-shirt, which might as well be a target that says, "I'm a douche bag Gringo," spouting off racial epithets that would even make Lindsey Graham cringe, especially if it's a fucking Office Max, where many of those business men and women you saw can probably speak English. But, thanks to your complete lack of common sense and your notion that everyone in Mexico gives a shit what you think, you are making the rest of your fellow countrymen look bad. Gracias.

The "Thank God You Are Here To Help Me and Every Other Lost Person" Award:

• We have co-winners in this category! The co-winners are: Ashley, my neighbor, and Susy, our guide - If it weren't for their generosity, knowledge, and their ability to speak Spanish, I'd probably be half-naked in Tijuana somewhere with a cactus shoved in my ass screaming, "Agua, agua, agua, agua" (thank you to the two and a half of you that know that reference and laughed). Gracias.

The "Thanks for Being So Creepy That Now I Feel Awkward About Talking to Girls in Mexico Without Feeling Like The Creepy, Cliche Panty-Sniffer Character From The Majority of Crappy Teen Movies" Award:

• To the awkward army of men who constitute what has to be the most overanxious, hormone driven bunch of males since the locker room of my eighth grade PE class - Really? Seriously? Is it necessary to call someone 40 times a day, for two straight weeks? And that is singling no one out. It seems like every male I've met here has phone finger Tourettes or something. One call, or a text, or maybe two calls if she's really attractive. But because men here are often creepier than being a dank cellar with Hannibal Lecter and Miggs (the link for this is completely inappropriate, even for me), it has totally ruined any effort I thought about making in asking any girls out. Why? Because asking girls out here is like an auction - everything happens too quickly and before you know it, you are stuck sitting there with a dumbass look on your face while what you wanted is in the hands of some fat slob whose going to sit it on his mantle where it will collect dust and Cheetoh residue. I don't mean that in a demeaning way towards any women. It's just the only metaphor swimming around inside my mind at the moment, a mind that is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.
  

The "I Love This Whole Relaxed Attitude, But Disorganized Disorganization Pisses Me Off" Award

• Self-explanatory

The "Debbie Downer" Award:

• Do I deserve the "Debbie Downer" award for this post? Probably. I mean, it's not like I haven't moved to a foreign country, tried to learn a new language, ended up in the hospital, and spent more money than I have on stupid shit I'll never use in less than three weeks. BUT, as much as Mexico fraggle-rocks, there are a number of Debbie Downers here, and this award goes to all of you, with the hope that whoever you may be, you hop down off that shed Nancy and change your name to Deborah, because you are ruining a good time for the rest of us.

Thanks for reading and we'll be back soon enough with a bright, new, cheery post that is chocked full of sunny images and happy thoughts!

Bringin' A Little Bit of Home to Mexico

First, health update. I'm fine. I'm back to eating as I should be. I think part of the problem could be that I haven't been able to keep up my intake of half a cow, three chickens, and two pigs a day (i.e. I eat a lot of meat at home). However, that situation has been rectified. I feel fantastic now and the last several days have laid case to that, such as...

Wednesday - The USA/Mexico World Cup qualifier. I have been looking forward to this moment since I learned I was going to be in Mexico. Ashley, Sherman, and I tried both a Chili's and an Applebee's, but they were completely chocked full of green clad Mexican fans. And so, we ended up at this over-priced, snobby Mexican seafood buffet that was near a Holiday Inn, where I'm quite certain they cooked the food in the disease infested pool. It was horrible. And I'm not usually one to back down from food. Anyways, I had made a bet with the PE teacher and my coordinator at school that if the USA won, they had to fix me carne asada Mexico style. Otherwise, I had to fix them steak, Indiana style. Well, despite an early goal from my homeboy Charlie Davies (this is the goal - watch for the attempt at the "Carlton Dance" before he starts getting pelted with trash), the 110,000 screaming Mexican fans throwing piss, vomit, and batteries at the players for ninety minutes, refereeing shadier than a deaf, blind, white guy at a MosDef concert, and the fact our best player ("Mandon" Landon Donovan) played with swine flu, we lost 2-1. And so, the bet was mine to fulfill.

Friday Afternoon - You know those heart-warming, touching, rally-the-troops-and-make-everyone-feel-good days employers hold? Ours was Friday. But, it was Mexican style. What does that mean, you ask? We had the introductory PowerPoint that ended with "Welcome to the Madison Family!" and the fun little games that serve a deep, dramatic purpose of displaying what the kids we'll be teaching go through, and of course the comraderie that comes with those activities. Then, we all went to a local eatery, stuffed our faces, and proceeded to party. Imagine your high school principal saying, "Beers and margaritas are on me, and the first five are mine!" This is why I love Mexico. I had a great converstaion/chain-smoking convention with two co-workers - but, the night was young.

Friday Night - We rolled to Sherman's pad for the cookout to settle what is probably the infancy of a horrid gambling addiction. Anyways, Sherman's house is very nice - extremely nice - but the patio seals it. Open space inside a privacy wall with a large brick grill and a lime tree. A real-honest to God, lime tree. Growing right there. With real limes.


It was the first of a two part series this weekend that was perhaps the most gloriously spectacular weekend since Bill and Ted traveled through time in a phone booth and kidnapped Abraham Lincoln. To uphold my end of the bet, I marinated 30 New York strip steaks overnight in a Chicago-style marinade, garnished them with onion and lime, and cooked the puppies up just right.

("Thirty steaks? New York strip? Really? That is ridiculous Ryan! Too much money!" Oh yeah? Try 350 pesos. Go ahead. Put that into a converter and see how much that is in US dollars. Then go ahead and get yourself a new pair of underwear to replace the ones you just shit in. Granted, the meat was as tender as if it came from an 89 year-old Grandma with hips like the Hoover Dam and a goiter the size of Rhode Island on the side of head whose lived in the desert her whole life, but for that cheap, you can't pass it up.)


I'll describe the night with a familiar rhyme - "And so the betters with their beer and I with my rum settled down at the table for a bit of good fun. The steaks were all eaten, the men were all fed, and then we smoked and drank until 3am. And at the end of it all, with our belts much too tight, buenas noches to all, and to all, we are drunk." (Look for that and much more in my upcoming first book, Senor Ryan's Inappropriate Nursery Rhymes for Kids, Vol. 2)

Saturday Night - I've never really been to a "club" per say. You know, the stand outside and hope some greasy bouncer in a ten-cent suit says you're cool enough to go in. Well, I went to one. A nice one. Think Cocktail with so many beautiful Latina women that I might have wept at some point in the night. It was glorious. If there were a basketball gym, James Dean, and a movie theatre that only played Without Limits, Saving Private Ryan, and The Big Lebowski on loop, all while Led Zepplin and Beatles music could be heard everywhere (and only the good stuff), I might think it was heaven. I know that's convoluted, but you need to understand just the glory of what mine eyes have seen.

Anyways, I've heard so many stories about the prowess of Mexico and their drinking that it will constitute my second book, Senor Ryan's Stories About People Getting Wasted in Mexico That May or May Not Be Made-Up. Why not show them how we do it in Indiana? So I did. And it was wonderful. And I sang songs in Spanish I didn't know and met people I can't remember and ate tacos that were most excellent, but I think I made the point and have finally reconciled, through all my adventures here this one thing (WARNING: semi-sentimental moment upcoming - look away if you cringe at hearing someone say, "We're gonna watch The Notebook"):

That while I have lived in the small hamlet that is country Indiana for 23 years, it's old and not me and I'm over it. I love being here. I love everything about it. Hell, if I became semi-fluent in Spanish (just enough so some cabbie wouldn't rape me behind a 7/11), I'd move here. Or anywhere. This culture and these people and these experiences are exactly what I've needed to avoid the drab existence that is waking up to cornfields and munching cows every morning and driving the same cracked gravel roads and staring at the same flat plains and hearing the same bitching and moaning from the same old farts who think everyone under the age of 30 has it "so easy", when in reality it's an entirely new bag of shit we have to deal with, mainly from close-minded individuals who think living an 1880's, Little House on the Prairie, "please-and-thank-you", better-not-dip-your-wick-until-your-married,-but-once-you-are-you-can-sleep-around-like-you're-Michael-Jackson-at-a-choir-boy-lock-in lifestyle is better than enjoying life and realizing that one day we're all gonna be worm food and there's no reason to be so damn pensive about each little move until you're 65 and realize you've wasted your entire life doing nothing and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.

A few last thoughts:

1. I finally finished The Memory of Running. Great novel. Highly recommend. A modern, more subdued Forrest Gump. I am currently well into The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. Very good so far. I always welcome reading suggestions, so if you have them, shoot.
2. I've been asked about ignoring Facebook chats and if I'll ever get Skype. I run on borrowed Internet that is worse than dial-up. Seriously. Soon I will try Skype and report the results. Please be patient. As great as things are, there's always something like shitty Internet to mess it up.
3. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, enjoy yourself and have a wonderful day!
   

Of Heat, Horsetails, and Hospitals

It happened. It finally happened. After a solid week of dealing with the Mexican weather, she finally got me. Mexico went all Kathy Bates to my James Caan. But, we shall arrive there shortly.

Saturday was our first rendezvous to one of the natural wonders of the Monterrey area. Cola de Caballo, or Horsetail Falls, is an amazing waterfall that is even more spectacular when you stop and realize that the Monterrey area is a desert climate, and although the surrounding area is mountainous, it is nothing like American peaks, where snow collects and runs off in small streams and creeks. The mountains here are just as arid as the ground level. So to see such a sight, considering the circumstances, is astonishing.


The heat here, as mentioned before, is fierce. I believe I said earlier it was as if Satan ate a Mexican bean dish then decided to fart ever-ceasingly on the entire country. It's just plain hot. And for the first several days I was here, it wasn't a huge problem. I mean, I even wear jeans everyday. But, as I said in my introduction, all good things come to an end. Around Sunday, I found myself not eating on account of the heat. And this normally happens to me in Indiana during the summer. I just wait until the cool night breeze rolls in and gourge myself until I explode (insert shameless Monty Python plug here). Not here. There is no cool breeze. Sweat rolls down the crack of your ass like Niagra Falls 24-7.

So no food + ridiculous temperatures + my already incredibly low body fat = Deep Shit

Last night, I came home, slept, woke up, took about ten steps, and my vision was spotty. I held myself against the counter and told Jeff, "Hey, I'm going to pass out. Maybe you should get some help or something." So we call our guide here. She tries to rush here to take me to the hospital, gets pulled over by the Tranistos (Mexican police), tells them she has to get a sick American to the doctor, and they let her go. MEANWHILE, the school administrator finds out through several phone calls, orders an ambulance to come get me, but the ambulance never arrives because it goes to the school instead, and it takes 3 measure of common sense to realize schools aren't open at 10 o'clock at night. So, 2 hours after I initially feel like "pinin' for the fjords" (Monty Python again - you find it this time), we finally track down this rolling doctor's office on the side of the highway. Yes, I visited the doctor on the side of the highway. No joking. This is when he completely misdiagnosis me, sending me then to a hospital several miles away.

So, we arrive at this said hospital several miles away. Long story made very short - my lack of food intake combined with the many possible ways to catch an infection here have come to fruition and so I am on antibiotics but now feeling fine enough that I scarfed down a large helping of Mexican-Chinese food and have returned to my normal, semi-pasty white color. I am quite certain at this point that there is no infection, but instead I simply could not survive three days on two bananas and a package of crackers (and some children's yogurt that tasted like dirty diaper flambe with a side of raw elephant testicle and a hint of a homeless man's urine).

Two final tidbits so as not to leave you with the impression that I am an infectous, disease carrying Gringo roaming the streets of Mexico with foam lathering from my mouth:

1. In an earlier post, I stated that watching movies in English and reading the subtitles in Spainsh is a fantastic way to learn the language. So tonight I bought two movies: Johnny y June: pasion y locura (Walk the Line) and El Club de Lapella (Fight Club). They cost me 65 pesos each, or 4.99 US dollars. Still looking forward to the day when Rescatando al Soldado Ryan falls into my eager little hands.
   
2. So my shower here suck(ed)...hard. The first time I used it, the middle section fell out and so I was left with a stream of water that would burn a hole through an elephant (the Commando 450). But as of tonight, there is a beautiful, new, stainless steel shower head, waiting to shower me in all its gleaming, steely glory. Dios bendice Mexico...
   

School Daze, Mis Nuevos Amigos, and Unibrows

First, a few short anecdotal tidbits that may or may not be of interest to the audience at-large:

1. A few days ago, I was cleaning out my jean pockets before washing them, and found 27 pesos. And while that equals about 2 US dollars, it was the first time I found money in my pockets in my laundry in Mexico. Mexican-laundry-money-virginity gone.
2. Because electricity is based around the same currency as caviar and Tiffany earrings here, we try to conserve as much as possible (call it forced to be "Green", if you will). So, in order to save on gas/electric costs with our dryer (yes, it uses both - don't ask me), I made a clothesline. A large one, with lots of little wooden clothespins. Now I'm four hairy facial moles and fifty pounds away from being a real Mexican mother (forgive me anyone from Mexico reading this - it was a joke. The American version would be, "the stench of stale beer, nine smoldering, chain-smoked cigarettes, barbed-wire/picket fence tattoos, 75 lard filled pounds, and a cup between my nasty boobs from being a real redneck mother [and if any rednecks are reading this...well, let's be honest they can't read]).
3. Finally, we got gas for our stove, and so I took the stove's virginity (running theme in this entry) with a little bit of quesadilla action and some white cheddar/queso macaroni and cheese, with a side of picco de gallo. And while that may seem cliche or even unorthodox, I don't care, because I have been here a week and haven't had time to find recipes or shop extensively, so kiss my ass.
4. I figured out how to link my obscure references which I am constantly lambasted for to actual pictures/videos. This excites me like a kid opening a present on Christmas morning.
   

We started training Wednesday. I can easily describe the training as college education classes - but in Spanish. That's right, Spanish. We had to wear earphones while a little old, but very sweet lady translated in the back of the room. Our training involved two hours of the first four "Harry Potter" movies (apparently because the children's use of Mexican voodoo on their teachers is similar to wizardry) and a wonderful viewing of "Finding Nemo". Why "Finding Nemo"? To discover character traits in the characters. But, as I pointed out, they're Disney characters so they all have the same shining virtues that have no basis in reality, hence the reason it is talking, animated, Hippie-turtles.

I have made nice with two people who work at the school, both of whom would win my MTV edition of "Senor Ryan's New BFF!" The first is the principal of our school (but is more the equivalent of a superintendent). He is a young guy and extremely nice. Like, super nice. Imagine your superintendent sitting down for lunch, talking about his family, then delaying the resumption of a meeting to talk about his favorite football teams and where he went to college. I can tell that the school runs so efficiently and everyone at least seems happy simply because he makes it go and is extremely congenial - or more like, badass. Super, super, super di-dooper guy!

The second person is the maintenance man at the school, who also repairs things at our house. He speaks very little English, I speak very little Spanish, but yet, we communicate quite easily. Every time we see each other, I wave and he smiles and waves back. It's total bro-love. For example, he came to ask what was wrong with the house. I said, "La luz en la bano...es...no trabajo (the light in the bathroom is no work). Ahora, no problemo, pero, noche (Now, no problem, but night)..." at which point I covered my eyes and pretended to run into the wall while whizzing. He laughed extremely hard. The light was fixed an hour later. He also falls into the category of super, super, super di-dooper!

We met two new guys at training, Sherman and John. Sherman is from Miami and works at our school. John is from Greenwood (how small is the world!) and works far away, but was here for training anyways. Both are fine, upstanding individuals of the highest accord. So last night, for Sherman's birthday, we went to Hooter's, of course. Eight pitchers of beer and several double shots later, my first celebration in Mexico ended stupendously (mind you, most of that was not consumed by me, but I wanted to make clear this was no "blow out your candles and have nana give you a kiss on the cheek and a check for $10" kind of birthday). Fabulous, fabulous evening.

Finally, I leave you with a quandary that has perplexed me for some time. Mexican men, unlike American men, rock the unibrow. Straight up. I mean, we're talking caterpillar-crawling-across-the-brow-ridge-fully-dressed-for-winter kind of unibrow. It makes Russian female gymnasts look like a cueball. Now, we are probably all aware of the massive clumps of hair that rest upon my eyes, and you are probably wise to the fact that I have to keep my unibrow trimmed so as not to look like Weird Al's upper lip. And so, my perplexity: "To unibrow or not to unibrow, that is the question?"

"Enemigos Publicos" (or 'Public Enemies') Review

I'll take a break today to write a short movie review. We ventured back to Valle Oriente for a 7pm viewing of the recent movie, Public Enemies. First of all, I am going to start watching every movie with Spanish subtitles. You learn so much of the language and pick up cool sayings, as well (I can say "Bullshit!" now in Spanish!) Second, the movies are dirt cheap compared to the US. A prime time viewing was 57 pesos, or 4.33 US dollars. Cheap.

I enjoyed the movie. I thought Johnny Depp was spectacular, as usual, and has firmly secured himself as one of the top two-to-three actors alive right now (next to Daniel Day Lewis, everybody is a schmuck). He looked like Dillinger and did not possess that Depp persona he normally carries in his movies, thereby seperating himself from any previous performance of his own. I also thought Marion Cotillard was too good for this movie. She is quickly becoming a hot ticket on the acting scene, as was evidenced by her Academy Award for "La Vie en Rose". She was amazing. Christian Bale, as Melvin Purvis, and Billy Crudup (aka PRE from "Without Limits"), as closet crossdresser J. Edgar Hoover, were both terrific. The cast was well assembled, I will give the casting directors credit for that.

The shootouts were fantastic. Just blew the speakers off the wall. And the blood and gore bordered on Tarintino, but was not overly dramatic or ridiculous (with the possible exception of the cheek shot to Dillinger at the end).

I felt like half the movie was filmed during Cloverfield. If you get nauseous easily, stay away. Can they not use a SteadyCam? Also, the lighting was at time too dark. There were also too many characters and they weren't plumbed for an emotional connection of some sort. They were cardboard cutouts we were supposed to feel for (the character "Red" comes to mind). I also was confused as people were dying left and right who was who. It all became very confusing. The pacing was also a bit slow. I didn't mind so much, but the others in my group were bothered by it. Finally, I wanted to see some more concrete locations. Perhaps I just wanted a subtitle during the Greencastle bank robbery (or what I suspected was the Greencastle bank robbery), but it was hard to keep track where Dillinger and his gang were at all times, and I'm even familiar with his story and trail.

All told, very good movie, bordering on great, that is more for the guys than the ladies, but does present a wonderful picture for history buffs. 3 1/2 stars out of 5

Two side notes:

1. Behind us in the theatre, about halfway through, some teenagers kept moving around, playing musical seats, getting in our way, kicking the back of our seats, etc. They finally settled directly behind us and were talking and playing on their phones, making tons of noise. Both Jeff and Ashley were getting really annoyed and it was a critical point in the movie. So, I turned around and said, "Silencio, por favor" ('Quiet, please.') It worked. They moved. Successful conversational Spanish 1.
2. On our cab ride home, we ended up with a shady guy who kept looking at a rate sheet instead of the meter, which he turned off halfway through. When we arrived home, the cab ride we have taken twice now (both costing around 85 pesos) was 170 pesos according to this "sheet". It was ridiculous. That's approxiamtely 13 US dollars. Complete and utter rip-off. So we were taken for the first, and most likely, not last time. Live and learn. Live and learn...
   

Public Transportation, Supermarcados, and Sick Puppies

In the last few days, I've been using public transportation quite a lot. I wish I would claim that I figured it all out myself, but that would be a lie. Ashley, another teacher here from Chicago, has been our translator and savior. In return for her help, I smoke $1.25 US packs of cigarettes with her. Even though she bought them.

Anyways, the buses are what you might expect. It's nothing to write home about, but it also isn't a rolling rust bucket. They are littered with graffiti, ripped seat cushions, and a generally worn appearance. However, a trip to La Soriana (the grocery store) is 10 pesos, which is like 70 US cents. It's interesting to see the variety of patrons all in one small area. People watching. I love it.

La Soriana - When I was in college, Wal-Mart (which sucks ass, but everyone here loves, too) was what we'd do when we were bored. Walk around, look at things, buy unnecessary items, etc. Alright, I do the same thing here, but just at La Soriana. It's kind of like a Super Wal-Mart - with everything you could want - but the grocery prices are the only thing that is cheap.

Last night, Ashley finally figured out that I had been craving pico de gallo after I looked for the right salsa recipe forever (credit to Matt Val, grandson in our fraternity, who fixed the same dish one night in Mike Cowden's room and changed my life forever). So we made a late-night run to La Soriana for the ingredients. The pictures can be found on Facebook. But, I want to give the basic recipe, because you need to make it:

• 6 tomatoes, seeded (you only want the meat on the outside)

• 1/2 large white onion, chopped

• 2-3 jalapenos, seeded and chopped (depending on your desired hotness)

• 1/4 cup cilantro, chopped

• 1 whole lime

Mix all the ingrdients together, minus the lime. Squeeze the lime juice over it. Mix again and add salt to taste. You may also have to add water. Refridgerate for better results. Use with tortilla chips or over bread (or steak, as I found out tonight).

Let me tell you the other reason I love La Soriana. I love bread, stemming from my ten days in France and my love of French food and culture. In general, I love crusty bread. A large dinner roll sized bread, crusty, white or wheat - 1 freaking peso. How much is that? About 8 US cents. EIGHT DAMN CENTS! I know for a fact they are at least .99 at Meijer and much more other places. Yes, I bought a bag of gourmet, crusty, lovely bread for 7 pesos, or 50 US cents.

Back to transportation...we have also been using the taxi service frequently. Why? It's cheap, too. A ride to La Soriana or any other store is about 50 pesos, or 3.25 US dollars. A ride downtown from our house (where they will pick you up) is about 125 pesos, or 8.50 US dollars. That's a cab ride from the Northside of Indy to downtown Indy. Insane, I know. And the cabs are all pretty nice. They are nicer than the New York City cabs, which were bacterial cultures happening. And all our drivers so far have been very nice, especially the man who we coincidentally had twice in one night, who refused a large tip the first time and joked, "Next time." An hour later...bam! Next time happened. He took it. Gracias wonderful man.

One last thing...just down from our home, maybe 1/4 mile, is a roadside stand that sells - puppies. I haven't seen them personally, but Ashley and our other guide tell me they are sickly, die-in-three-days kind of puppies. I finally saw one today and it was adorable, but obviously a little ill. I'm sure they are inexpensive. But, a huge difference from here to the states is the obvious abundance of "entrepeneurs". People here sell everything, everywhere, anytime. But, in an economy and culture that has little money to spread around, where people make little dinero, there are extremes many people resort to to make money. Even selling sickly puppies.

p.s. - I have started to speak with a lisp. Even when I speak English. It's common for Spanish speakers to have a lisp (think plaza as platha). And maybe it's because my friend Mike, who studied in Spain, made sure I knew about the lisp and rolling of the "r", but seriously...I have a bad ass accent. Just wanted that to be known.

p.p.s. - Thanks for the comments so far. I appreciate them. Keep them coming. And if you have any questions about anything - certain habits, traits, cultural occurrences, differences, etc. - ask and I can hit those, too. I always want to please me readers - repeatedly. Gracias.

The Mexico Arrival - Part II

The school I'll be working in is new...brand new. They built the first wing two years ago and the wing I'm going to be working in is still under construction. Our classrooms have no walls, windows, or floors. It's basically some steel and concrete right now. But, being new, it is fantastic. There is a full-size football (soccer) field that is AstroTurf and is nicer than any field I've ever seen at a school. There are three basketball courts, one of which is covered. The school rooms are large red brick walls with windows to the outside and concrete floors, which sounds quite drab, but is actually fantastic. The hallways are outside and not enclosed by anything but a roof (meaning animals, the elements, etc. can come through at any time). The head of the school, Enrique, is a really nice, very young guy. I feel pretty good about the situation.

First full day out and about. The mall we were at is like any American mall, minus the Telcel model handing out pamphlets in white pants so tight and sheer that I would receive a credit in Anatomy 101 for standing there. The main store is called Liverpool, where I bought the local team's football jersey, sponsored by Bimbo Bread...so awesome. All the women wear either very thin sandals with cuffs around the ankle, or 4-inch platform wedge shoes that make them look like the fifth missing member of KISS. It's crazy. How the hell they walk around in those things, I'll never know.

Today, we went downtown to the steel museum, which was a major industry in Monterrey for many years. The museum is inside of the actual mill...very cool. While it sounds boring, it was like a Children's Museum for steel - lots of things to play with and experiment. Of course, I was bouncing around like a six year old on Mountain Dew, doing every little stupid experiment. We went to the top of the mill, an observation platform that was at least 50 meters off the ground and provided a panoramic view of Monterrey. The city is surrounded by mountains, the Sierra Madre Oriental (which goes north to help form the southern part of the Rocky Mountains). And these aren't you mommas mountains. They literally rise right up out of the ground. There are shanty houses that line the mountains halfway up that look like Lego houses from far away with black square holes cut in the side. The main mountain, which is outside of our house and visible from all over the city, is the Cerra de la Silla (Saddle Mountain). The peak is cut in a U-shape that looks like a saddle. Very interesting to see...

We took a boatride down the Santa Lucia Riverwalk, which is very similar to the canal in San Antonio (or Indianapolis for you local yokels). The ride was narrated in Spanish, and about every six seconds, some Mexican man with a huge lensed camera next to me would say aloud, "Oh...Ah...Oh...Ah...Oh". I laughed. It was funny. Maybe he was "Oh-ing" and "Ah-ing" at the 473 wedding couples we saw. Seriously. Married in 100+ degree heat. Buena suerte...gente loca.

At the end of the riverwalk was the plaza where the Governor of Nuevo Leon (the state Monterrey is in) resides. There were tents set up everywhere selling school supplies, including Spanish copies of 1984, Hamlet, and Macbeth, which I nearly bought (apologies to Mr. Perin). There were also street vendors every 10 meters selling bottled water and assorted drinks. We walked through a park where teenage couples were rolling around (literally) and making out, while gay couples stood in the shadows of trees and held hands. Hot.

One little kid, whose mother was selling bottled water, was running around wearing a large black shopping bag and carrying an umbrella. That would shocking if half the children of Indiana didn't do the exact same thing, except with feed bags and half as many teeth.

We ate a nice cafe on the riverwalk. I had fettuccine with a spinachy pesto sauce, topped with grilled chicken and Bacon Bits (advertised as "artificial bacon substitute"). I had a mineral water lemonade, which tasted a lot like Minute Maid lemonade, but much more sour and bubbly. The Football Club de Monterrey, nicknamed the Rayados ("stripes") after their striped jerseys, were on TV playing Atlas from Guadalupe. They were up at half 2-0...should probably see how that turned out.

There are so many things here that are different, obviously, and many mannerisms and actions and happenings that I could write about for days (such as our guide learned English by watching episodes of "Friends" on an illegal DirectTV signal from the US), but those, I'm sure, will spew forth as I continue to discuss the random events that happen here. From here on out, I promise to try to make the writing less narrative and more badass. Although, I will fall miserably short of the high standard set by Seth Elder, Fulbright Scholar and all-around genius extrodinaire. Can't win them all...