Hello family, friends, and random readers,

As we get closer and closer to Christmas, I feel less and less like it actually is Christmas season. I arrived in the state of Chiapas this morning with my friend Laura and tomorrow we are leaving for Guatemala, where we will spend Christmas on a lake with two friends, a Mexican and a Canadian. I miss all of my loved ones, and I still can´t my cravings for soft pretzels to go away, but other than that I am loving my life and making the most of my year in Mexico. For the past 8ish days, and for the next week-week and a half, we are on the road. Here are a couple picture updates of what we have done and what we have seen of this enchanting country. Enjoy the photos, have a very merry Christmas, and send me some mail order soft pretzels if you feel like it.

Much love,
Molly

With Naomi, our fellow ETA friend in Oaxcaca City:



With Naomi´s friend Celes, who along with his family members make these wool weavings by hand:



In a town outside of Oaxaca City, we hiked a small mountain and took naps at the top. I was actually asleep:



On our magical hike in the woods of San Jose del Pacifico, a town of a few thousand in the mountains of Oaxaca:



The hike felt like a mix of Jurassic Park, Dr. Suess and Where the Wild Things Are:



We were invited to a wedding in San Jose, by the owner of the cabins where we stayed. The couple who were married:



With two of our many new friends we met at the wedding:



Our first day on the beach in Mazunte, Dec. 19:



The view from our bedroom window in our hostel in Mazunte, called ¨Posada del Arquitecto:¨



After one of our two barefoot beach jogs, at the crack of dawn in Mazunte:



Drinking cold coconuts with rum, two days ago on the beach of Zipolite:



Hibbiscus flower tempura, cooked by our chef friend:


Horse on the cliff in Mazunte:


Sunrise from a cliff on the beach at Mazunte, on our last day in town (yesterday):


The town where we are currently, San Cristobal de Las Casas, Chiapas:

A single photo update

I was going to add a few pictures from San Jose, the mountain town, and from Mazunte, the beach town where I am now, but the internet cafe owner just told me we can´t upload pictures, so I will only be able to show you this alarming photo. I promise I am using sunblock, Mom and Dad, it´s just... ya know, the Mexican sun is a bit strong.

Merry Christmas from Oaxaca!



Just like Thanksgiving, I don´t feel like it is Christmas. Today I drank the water out of a coconut on the beach, napped in a hammock, and ate fresh fish for dinner. Mazunte has been incredible, and tomorrow we will move again, probably winding up in Guatemala for Christmas.

Saludos a todos! Greetings to everyone.

In the Magical South

On Tuesday December 14 at 11:15pm Laura and I boarded our bus in Mexico City for Oaxaca City. After a long and winding journey of halting sleep, we arrived in Oaxaca the next morning at 5:30am. Oaxaca is a state in Southern Mexico, near Guatemala, the first or second state with the largest indigenous population.

After staying in the charming cobblestone and colorful capital city for two nights and visiting with our other Fulbright friend Naomi, we left early morning yesterday, Dec. 17 for San Jose del Pacifico, which a friend recommended to me. It is halfway between the capital and the Pacific Coast, a town hidden in the forresty mountains, free of any desmadre (mess). Indeed, there is no bank, no supermarket, no convenience stores, nor cell phone service. It has been such a refreshing break from the pollution and desmadre of Mexico City and Cuernavaca. The air is crisp and smells of firewood. The sun is strong; five minutes in its path and I already start to burn. Clouds and mist wrap their way around the mountain peaks in the late afternoon and settle until nighttime, when they lift and make room for the stars and moon.

Some say this town is magical; many say it is a place of spirits. I believe it. There is no church--untouched by the Spanish conquistadors. Just a small, pure pueblo, inhabited by beautiful people with dark skin who greet every passing tourist with a ¨Buenos dias¨ and a smile.

Last night after a brief hike, Laura and I ate at one of the small handful of restaurants which exist on the main drag. It is owned by a woman named Ofelia. The taquería across the street is owned by her 20-year old son. The mini-super up the street is owned by another son of hers. The restaurant down the street with Italian food and a Corona sign outside is owned by her other son. And the youngest, Alan, the 12-year old, helps out in her restaurant, and as Ofelia told us, will probably never leave. As Laura said to her, ¨hay que guardar uno¨ (you have to save one for yourself).

At dusk, the sight of the town from the restaurant looked like a scene from a snow globe, except instead of swirling snow, it was fog and clouds that drifted in and out of every crevice of the mountain. Houses dotted the hill. Fires blazed outside the little wooden cabins. A truck wound its way up the only paved road. Lights began to blink on as night fell on the mountainside.

In the 1970s, the town of San Jose still lay hidden in the wild mountains of Oaxaca. The roads were unpaved; two restaurants existed, as well as two mini grocery stores--mostly for people passing through the narrow crooked roads on their mules. If today it is a pueblito, 40 years ago it was a pueblitito. Then the outsiders discovered the magic mushroom, which grew wildly and abundantly throughout the rainy season in the surrounding land. Hippies began flooding the town in their Volkswagon vans, looking for the magical plant. Ofelia, who was 12 when San Jose was discovered by outsiders, told us how scared she was of the long-haired, tall blondes coming to the town to recreationally consume their traditionally medicinal hongos (mushrooms). But, she said, they enjoy the presence of the foreigners, who bring business to the town. Many Japanese and Europeans. Few Americans.

The people here are amazingly warm, as are their kitchens. As she stood at the oven stirring a pot of atole, a chocolate-y, starchy hot drink, Ofelia told us, ¨Si no hay cocina, la casa no está caliente¨ (If there is no kitchen, there is no warmth in the whole house).

On our way down the mountain yesterday after the hike, Laura and I saw a person outside his house hacking away at some plants next to his cornfield about 50 yards up the side of the mountain (we were on the road). He had been doing the same thing on our way up two hours earlier. Rural Mexican yardwork I guess you could say. We stopped and watched him for a few moments until he looked up and spotted us. We snapped out of our daze and started walking again, but I doubled back and waved, remembering the warmth of the people. He waved back, then watched us until we disappeared around the bend, two blonde specks.

We were invited to a wedding yesterday by Ofelia. It is starting in a few minutes. Laura and I decided to stay an extra night, delaying our arrival to the beach by one more day.

Tomorrow morning, we will continue on our journey to the coast, to the town of Mazunte.

Feliz Navidad!

By the way...

If anyone is interested in seeing how I taught Thanksgiving to my students, here are the two articles I used:

This one is more of an overview of the holiday:

http://wilstar.com/holidays/thankstr.htm

And this one is a personal story of a Vietnamese immigrant's Thanksgiving:

http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/social_issues/july-dec06/thanksgiving_11-23.html

Día de Acción de Gracias (Thanksgiving)

(me and most of my students on Thanksgiving... I'm front row, left side)

Pumpkin bread was nowhere to be found, and the turkey tasted just a little too boring without canned cranberry sauce, but other than that, my Mexican Thanksgiving experience exceeded all expectations!

On Thursday afternoon, the English language department along with my students and me, sponsored a Thanksgiving celebration at my University, UTEZ. The whole school was invited, and a majority of the English students in the school ended up coming (which I would estimate at about 100—great turnout!). To remind you, I teach four classes total, one on each day from Monday through Thursday. My Monday and Tuesday classes (advanced level) each performed a skit representing the events of the first Thanksgiving. My Wednesday and Thursday classes (intermediate level) pitched in to buy a turkey, which we acquired fully prepared and stuffed from the aunt of a fellow English teacher at UTEZ, who works in catering. My Thursday class also made a presentation on the typical foods eaten on this holiday.

Note: Remember, Thanksgiving is a holiday celebrated only in the U.S. It commemorates the “teamwork” between the Wampanoag Indians and the invading Puritan Pilgrims. I learned recently that the second official Thanksgiving was held without the presence of any Natives, instead celebrating a recent Pilgrim victory over the Indian “savages.” Anyhow, Mexico does not celebrate Thanksgiving. So I really didn’t know what to expect with the skits.

The students impressed me, going above and beyond with their preparation and creativity (there were an awkward few who neither knew their lines nor their role, but the majority was outstanding).

Here is a video of the first skit, performed by my Monday class (sorry for the poor quality):


And here are the videos of the second skit, performed by my Tuesday class (my camera’s memory space was running out so I stopped filming between scenes):

Tuesday skit part 1 (pilgrims recalling the first Thanksgiving):


Tuesday skit part 2 (arrival on the Mayflower):


Part 3 (Pilgrims and Indians' first encounter: exchanging facebook):


Part 4 (Pilgrims pray to God for sustenance and miraculously receive delivery from Domino's Pizza):


Part 5 (Indians join Pilgrims for dinner, Pilgrims- in spanish so the Indians can't understand- call in special forces to sack the Indians, "Aqui en la cena estamos"):


I missed the last part, in which the special forces come and behead the Indian chief.

In case you chose not to watch the videos, I will tell you about the most hilarious moment. It came in the second skit, when the pilgrims are huddled inside their cabin during the rough winter of no harvest. One of the pilgrims (my student Gustavo) stands up and says, “I’ll show you how we can get some food,” begins praying, asks God to send them food. All of a sudden there is a knock on the door, and in walks a Domino’s delivery man. **They actually hired a Domino’s delivery man to bring a pie of pizza into the auditorium during this scene. Like I said, above and beyond.

After the skits, the English faculty and my classes were invited to the feast. We had the turkey, corn, peas and carrots, bread, mashed potatoes, and two pumpkin pies which I bought from Costco. The highlights were the turkey, the stuffing in the turkey, which was totally a la Mexicano (ground meat, raisins, peas, and brown sugar), and the pumpkin pies.

It was a great day. I was very proud of my students.

Here are some pictures...

of the banquet:

with my boss/colleague Raquel... about to successfully carve the first turkey of my life. My students were very impressed, and couldn't believe I hadn't carved a bird before.

of me and my plate:

with some of my Tuesday students (Sergio, Alan, Alan's son Alancito, me, Gustavo):

with some of my Thursday students (Karla, me, Belén):


and with two colleagues (Raquel- my boss, and Sarita), already having fun with the leftovers:

Friday was Thanksgiving part 2 for my friend Laura and me. We got haircuts! Then we joined our friend John and Joan, a retired American couple living in Cuernavaca, for a meal of leftovers from their Thanksgiving. It was even more delicious than my Thursday meal. Complete with sweet potatoes, canned cranberry sauce, potatoes, ham, turkey, gravy, baked pineapple and more of that delicious Costco pumpkin pie.

Laura and me with our new haircuts and matching outfit (not on purpose):

The end. (I am thankful to everyone who reads my blog.)

A half-hearted update

To my loyal 20 or less readers:

So sorry for the delays, I have not been in very much of a blogging mood lately, but I know that I owe you some kind of communication.

Life is still good, although I am starting to feel a little antsy. Thank goodness for 3 wonderfully exciting things that will be happening soon and have kept me distracted/positive.

3. I will be moving apartments starting in January, in order to save a bit of money. I will stay in the same neighborhood, and am currently deciding between two rooms that are for rent in private homes (each going for about $130/month!).

2. BACKPACKING TRIP hooorayyyy! On December 12, I will leave Cuernavaca with my friend Laura to spend 3 weeks galavanting through Oaxaca, Chiapas, Guatemala, and hopefully the Yucatan Peninsula. This will include my first Christmas away from Philly and more importantly phamily. Very exhilarating.

Aaaand drumroll please for the number 1 thing that has kept me going for the past few weeks...

1. Mom is coming to visit.
From December 2nd through the 5th, with Aunt Regina. We will spend the time in Coyoacan, Mexico City. Coyoacan is significant for the following reasons: it is where Frida and Diego lived; it is also where Leon Trotsky hid out in exile after Stalin took power in the Soviet Union; there are many varieties of delicious street churros; there are delicious corn cookies sold on the street (imagine sweet crunchy corn bread); there is an enormous artisan market... I could go on, but most of my reasons have something to do with gastronomy or radical socialist historical figures.

Another cool thing that is happening (speaking of radical political beliefs) is my recent involvement in a retreat center here in Cuernavaca, run by Catholic nuns, one of whom is American, and all of whom are heavily interested in Marxism.

The center, Cuernavaca Center for Intercultural Dialogue on Development (CCIDD) works with various organizations in Cuernavaca and surrounding pueblos, including children's homes, indigenous artisan communities, orphanages, schools with limited resources in poor areas of town, etc. They bring University groups down for immersion trip programs, to perform community service and learn about international development. Hey SJU, sound familiar? Wolfington, anyone?

Wait, it gets better. The center is approximately 4 blocks from my house, has an outdoor pool, coffee brewing at almost all hours, and a stunningly beautiful property. It's a house, converted retreat center, has about 60 beds, an extensive DVD collection (mostly documentaries), and about 3 or 4 shelves of books sorted into categories like "education," "social development," "Mexico," "politics," "theology," "international poverty," etc. Two of the authors I've spotted so far on the shelves: Paulo Freire and Cornell West. Yahtzee! Also, the center employs a number of local men and women, as groundskeepers, cooks, program coordinators, translators, etc.

Kinda cool, right?

So anyway, I am currently helping at a breakfast program for kids before school in a semi-slum, actually it began as a squatter settlement next to railroad tracks in the 1930s, about 15 minutes from My Neck of the Woods, Cuernavaca. I will be going every Tuesday morning, helping to serve food and clean up. Then I walk back to the retreat center with two sisters who are in the program, to tutor them in English (they go to school in the afternoons). Last week I sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with them for an hour straight because they had to learn it for school.

It's nice to be involved in another community. The CCIDD community is surely a gem in this city.

This Thursday, my classes will be performing Thanksgiving skits. The whole University is invited. After the skits, the English faculty and my students are going to have a Thanksgiving feast! It won't be quite the same as usual, but I think these skits will be quite hilarious. Also, the meal can not possibly be worse than my 2008 Thanksgiving, which I spent in Lima, Peru. We made fettuccini out of a bag. Or frozen fettuccini. Something totally lame like that. Here's a picture, you make your own judgments.


To be honest, it hasn't even hit me yet that Thanksgiving is in 1.5 days. The weather here remains ever-eternally-springish, and the leaves are greener and more alive than ever. No Maggie O'Neill's Wednesday night, nor Turkey Bowl at Steel Field on Thursday morning. I did paint my nails autumn colors-red, orange, yellow- in hopes of getting more into the spirit. Gobble gobble.

What a boring, unpictureful post, huh? Here's a decent photo of me jumping on a pyramid in Xochicalco, Morelos (which is my state). As my friend told me, "una bailarina prehispánica," or a prehispanic ballerina.


As Tigger would say, TTFN: Ta ta for now!

And, Happy Turkey Day!

Graveyard Parties and Peanut Butter Chicken

T.I.M.

The big black pickup truck bounced to a stop in between two sedans in the dirt parking lot. From my perch in the bed of the truck, I surveyed the sight: A big blue Pepsi tailgating tent. At least two venders, pushing around their bicycle/platforms thingies, selling ice cream and water ice to parched children, families, and couples, who milled to and fro between their cars and the main attraction. A large truck/trailer, which seemed to be delivering a set of large speakers to a platform under the tent. Multiple rows of cars smushed into the small lot, which baked in the hot Campeche sun. And oh yes, the main attraction itself: an extensive, chalky marble graveyard.

It was November 2, 2010, the day following Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead), one of the most important celebrations in Mexico. And oh yes, my friends, believe me when I say it is a celebration.

I was visiting a friend in Campeche, a city located on the Yucatan Peninsula on the Gulf Coast and he and I had the privilege of accompanying a Mexican family (close friends of his) to visit the graves of three of their most dear relatives (two nieces who died young, about 15 or 20 years ago, and a grandmother).

If I haven’t already made it obvious, I was totally surprised by the party atmosphere in the cemetery that day (for crying out loud, tailgating tents and speakers?!). In the U.S., we regard our dead in a very somber, Debbie-downer fashion. In Mexico, Day of the Dead is a celebration of the memories of loved ones who have passed on. In homes, makeshift altars are built, pictures laid out, candles lit, favorite foods of the dead ones cooked, and stories told of the people who are being remembered. Families visit the graves, bearing fresh flowers and candles to place on the headstone. Sure, at times it borders on the excessive, but overall I believe it is a beautiful way to remember loved ones and honor their legacy.

I felt honored to have authentically experienced this day with a Mexican family.

W.I.A.

Another tradition of Dia de Muertos is called Pibil Pollo (which is pronounced “P.B. Pollo,” hence the title of this blogpost). A Mayan (I think?) dish typical of the Yucatan Peninsula region, I ate this Mexican shepherd’s pie three days straight, nearly fulfilling my friend’s promise that I’d gain 5 kilos during my week in Campeche! Here is a picture of the dish, which is supposed to be wrapped in banana leaves and cooked in an earth oven (pit/hole in the ground), but is often cooked in a regular oven for convenience:

Of course I ate lots of other things in Campeche, some of which are…

Homemade fried fish

Homemade baked fish

Maja Blanca, a velvety coconut pudding slice of heaven

Homemade chiles stuffed with mashed potatoes, meat and cheese

Octopus Salad

Shrimp soup

Slow-cooked ribs (my friend’s cousin/best friend Gustavo owns a rib place)

Rib tacos

And after an entire week of being with my friend’s cousins, grandmother, aunts and uncles, half-brothers and mom, as I felt the homesickness coming on, I indulged in Frosted Flakes, my breakfast of youth. The Spanish translation, “Zucaritas,” can be translated roughly as “Lil’ sugar jawns.” Gotta love it.

W.I.L.T.

The sounds of the waves, duh.

The streets of Campeche:

Home.

The fact of the matter is, we live in a world of contrasts and opposing forces. And so, with the feeling of being home also come the reminders that I really am not home. O sea, the homesickness.

But what is home? I don’t miss my Lexington Ave house. I don’t miss my street, or my town. Or my bedroom. What is it that I miss? What is this concept of “home” anyway? After lots of reflection and deliberation today, I discovered what it is that I miss.

Teasing.

Only. Girl. These two words sum up my life.

Having grown up with four brothers, I was never what you’d call a girly girl. “Playing” consisted of touch football in the backyard and “hanging out” consisted of four siblings ragging on whoever the unlucky one of the moment was. I miss being made fun of. I miss Conor constantly reminding me that “boys rule girls drool.” I miss being bombarded with “Molly, shouldn’t you be on a diet?” every time I reach for a snack. I miss talking smack, watching sports, and engaging in hilariously hostile banter with my siblings. Analyzing Jurassic Park (as the “movie that defined out generation”). Quoting Dumb and Dumber and Home Alone to no end. The list goes on.

(my brothers and me last Easter)

The pleasantries are getting old. The opening of doors. The cheek kisses as customary greetings. The utter politeness of everyone. Where are my friends, the ones with whom I can “kick it,” drink a beer with while doing homework, watch the Phillies game, curse at the TV, pretend we’re characters in Always Sunny?

T.I.M.

Maybe that’s why I had such a great time this past weekend in Mexico City at the game of the century (not really). America, the name of Mexico City’s soccer team vs. Chivas, the team from Guadalajara. One of the country’s greatest rivalries. The game ended 0-0, but I had a ball (pun not intended) sitting in the nosebleeds (literally the last row of the stadium), trying to learn the cheers, dancing to the chants, and just straight-up actin’ a fool.

(me and Beatriz)



W.I.A.

I also had a ball not being on a diet at the Cuernavaca Gastronomic Festival, with my Colombian friend Beatriz who visited from Mexico City where she is currently living.

(notice strategic placement of hands to cover up over-stuffed tummy)

I also ate an amazing sweet pink tamal (singular for tamales) tonight.



W.I.L.T.

Of course, I shall leave you with nothing other than a song called “Home,” which was my favorite song of Spring 2010 and is still high on my list of top-played on itunes. "Home is wherever I'm with you..." Well said, Edward Sharpe.



p.s. I am going to the beach for a week on Friday to get in touch with my inner-child again, spend all day in the ocean, catching sand crabs and chasing waves, growing freckles and naturally exfoliating in the sand. So pardon if I don't write for a while. I'll be in Campeche. Google it.

I stink at writing poetry...

...but boy am I good at spotting it.

As a former (still proud to call myself) English major, I have studied all kinds of literature. I enjoy poetry. ee cummings in particular. But I am horrible--absolutely terrible--at any attempts in creating it. I do, however create poetry in other ways.

Good poetry (in my opinion) invokes imagery. When I read a poem, I hardly ever understand it from start to finish. Poetic language can be very abstract. But the feeling of a poem is for me the ultimate goal, the end result. Think about music videos. Once you see the music video of a song you love, that images from the video will forever be engrained in your mind whenever you hear the song. Poetry is the same. It should invoke the senses, create certain images and still scenes in your head.

Lately I’ve been observing poetry in this sense. Backwards, if you will. I see a scene, and I think, well gosh darn that should be a poem. That may explain my love for photography.

For example, the first time I found myself trying to explain these sentiments, I was received with blank stares (explaining an abstract artistic concept in a foreign language is just as hard as it sounds!). I had climbed a small mountain in a quaint town called Tepoztlan, outside of Cuernavaca. I sat with my two friends, Laura the gringa, and Jorge, a Mexican, on a peak overlooking the town. Not another soul was near. Around us was pure silence, from far below we could hear the shouts of children playing, dogs barking, and cars honking in the town, but the sounds were as infinitesimal (high school vocab word, holler) as the images on a microscope slide. The sun was warm; the breeze was cool. The sky was clear and blue, and every so often a hawk would swoop overhead, in between distant peaks. We had brought a snack: beer and 2 small bags, of Cheetos and Doritos respectively. As I sat listening to the miniscule sounds, relishing the breeze and sun, and feasting on the breathtaking scenery, I couldn’t help but think that Cheetos were the most delicious thing in the world. That was my poem, and I struggled to try to explain it to my friends.









Most recently, as in yesterday, the poem I observed was the whiteboard in my classroom after class. I was cleaning up after the kids left, just about to erase the board, when I noticed how beautiful it was with the peculiar but revelatory set of words splattered like blue paint onto the surface. I didn’t have my camera with me, so I jotted down the words in my notebook in the exact same layout they were on the board. Try to picture the following smattering of words on a whiteboard, in this very layout:



Call me crazy, but that whiteboard was a poem to me.

I'll leave you with my favorite ee cummings poem, which is untitled:

"who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold

of November sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)"