The Club with the Professor

The night after we went to Tlaquepaque, we went out to the club with one of our professors, his wife, and their friends. The club we usually go to for salsa dancing is called Wallstreet, a pretty ritzy, very Mexican (despite the name), decently priced club full of people who can all dance very well. We pride ourselves that we are usually not the worst dancers on the floor anymore, though certainly still in the bottom 20%. With el profe, we went to a club called the Mutualista, after enjoying a few drinks and snacks at his very metropolitan apartment in downtown Guadalajra: pictured here are the host and the lovely hostess, chivalrilously taking seats on the floor to provide comfort for their guests. La Mutualista-- very different. Partly due to the fact that there was a massive concert at La Minerva that night (la Minerva is a statue of a Greek Goddess around which are centered many festivals and such) and partly due to the very nature of La Mutualista, this club was packed with middle-aged folks attempting to stage one-night stands. That I didn't mind at all; old people need lovin too. What struck me as unappealing was that almost nobody could dance a good salsa. The ensuing scene was that of a highschool dance, with everybody grinding up and gettin low on each other with beers in their hands, but to salsa music. I, myself, was struck by a recklessly snapped boody or hip on more than one occasion. I think it was recklessness, though those collision may very well have been calculated, too.
Oh how I wish I had a camera for one thing! There was one man, who in the spirit of Bob Dylan I will call "Senor Bojangles." He was around 6'5'', dressed in all black (formal, but no tie), which his hair burshed to the side and a bigote (mustache) like a damn pringles can. And, yes, he danced for you. Even to the extent that on one occasion he felt that I should spin, and so he spun me thus by grabbing my shoulders with his hands and twirling me himself. It didn't appear to bother the girl I was dancing with at the time, who was far to drunk to do anything but swing dance like a 5-year-old would swing dance: just sort of pushing herself out and leaning back, and then returning towards me to be immediately pushed out to arm-extension again. I tried leading her into some salsa steps and spins, which ended badly each time por ella ser borracha (cuz she was crunk). Afterwards, I imagine her confidence was wounded and self-esteem low, but I doubt she will remember, so she should be alright. Mr. Bojangles, though, never once wore an expression on his face more lackluster than the enthusiasm of a man dancing around the sidewalks of New York, swinging from lamposts and professing his love for women, nature, and life. I envy his bliss, which survives his lack of dancing ability gloriously.

The only other event of the night was the 40 minute car ride searching for our place of festivities. Originally, the group had been convinced to go to a very popular gay bar. These places are apparently only half-gay, as many people go there for the excellent dancing or just to say that they went to a gay bar. At any rate, Richard and I suspected that our dancing skills would cause people to assume we were gay, but we were equipped with the phrases to explain that we weren't, so we were ready to roll. As always in Mexico, during a discussion that touches on homosexuality, there are crude statements made that I usually just listen to unresponsively, realizing that I have little chance of making Mexico or Mexicans less violently Catholic. Asi es la vida.
Well, after driving around for a while not finding the said gay bar--entirely because we allowed for the drunken damsels to lead the way--we arrived to find that it was overcrowded and very expensive. So, we went to La Mutualista, which was as I described before. Above are pictured Los Tres Gringos, in usual fashion, Richard and Korey keeping a good attitude while I bitterly make jokes about the shortcomings of the moment. Korey usually smiles alot but says sarcastic things like, "who would have thought that letting the drunk girls navigate would turn out so well?" Richard laughs alot supportive of both of us, sometimes choosing to join in with the complaining and other times choosing to enjoy the moment for what it's worth. We have good team chemistry, which each person acknowledging their role.

Another interesting fact learned on this voyage: I have no pictures, but in Guadalajara there are lots of parking spaces off the side of the rode, not to be parallel parked in, but rather perpendicular to the rode just across the sidewalk. There are men, infallibly with dirty towels in their hands, who assist drivers in pulling in and out of these spaces around heavy traffic....whether the drivers want the assitance or not. This is apparently an illegal industry. However, if you don't pay these men, they slash your tires your break your windows. They are a mafia that rules the street. I imagine there is a closed facebook group for them, on which they post the lisence plate numbers of those people who attempted not to pay, who are then forced to change their plate numbers or cease parking in Guadalajara. I might try to take a picture, but I fear that the towel-parking mafia won't approve, and since I have no tires or windows, they will be forced to damage my body instead.

Tlaquepaque (tla-kay-pah-kay)

It makes more than a week now that I have not posted a blog entry. For this, I apologize to all those people who miss me and to all those people who don't have any feeling about my whereabouts in relation to theirs but still enjoy reading the blog. I have a couple excuses: first, we are inundated with homework here in Mexico, which I suppose is to be expected when one is earning 7 credits in 4 weeks; second, life has slowed down a little, and there is a little less excitement, but this too is due to homework (tarea). Blame the professors. BUT! here is a blog entry to break the dry spell.
Last Friday (not to say two days ago, but rather nine), we ventured to Tlaquepaque, cruelly named by indigenous folk a while back. This is a little community on the south side of Guadalajara famous for its glass artwork and tent-rittered markets. To get from here very near to la isquina de Patria y Vallarta (the corner of Patria y Vallarta (streets)), to there, in Tlaquepaque, one takes a large, red bus amply named El Cardenal. This bus is owned by a private company, as opposed to the city, costs 10 pesos instead of 5, has much comfier seats, air-conditioning, and is as illusive as the Lockness monster. The first time we rode it was to get to the Central Station more than a month ago, and we walked to the corner and borded the bus after waiting for only 5 or 6 minutes. At the time we did not realize nor appreciate our good fortune. Since that trip, we have been unable to locate the Cardenal, though we have seen it pass by like a ghost at times when we had no use for it. After waiting for 40 minutes for the red beast, we decided to ask a cabbie if the bus was even running that day. He said in fact it was, but he would give us a very good price to go to Tlaquepeque--70 pesos. We got in the cab.
If I could go back in time, I wish I would have started a systematic documentation of the different cab-drivers we had here in Guadalajara. I would have titled the blog, "Taxi-Driver Roulette." This particular cab driver at first appeared to be very pleasant and sane. This changed after he asked us what we were studying in the U.S. Richard replied "biologia"--only a short stretch from "teologia" and the roar of the highway incited the mis-hearing. The cabbie immediately and enthusiastically announced that he was a Jahova's Witness and proceeded to explain to me all the signs and dangers of the apocolypse. Undeterred by my polite but obvious attempts to change the conversation, the cabbie showered me with explanations of who my real ancestors were, why it was important to begin taking the necessary steps to save my soul, etc. To my infinite relief, we finally arrived in Tlaquepeque and got out of the cab, but not before he gave us his number so that we could contact him should we need a ride to Tonola or needed help with our soul-saving.

There isn't much to say about Tlaquepaque, the town. Like all places in Mexico, there were dogs on the street, lots of churches, bars, etc. One interesting anomalie we came across was this horrible translation placed outside a church. If you don't speak Spanish, skip reading this. If you do speak Spanish, enjoy a good laugh as you imagine some monk dressed in a burlap sack manufacturing this really aweful English translation.

We also ate some ice cream. Richard got some Tequilla flavored just for the experience. I tried it and I would eat a small serving of it with gusto I think. After looking at lots and lots of artwork and glass goods, it started to rain harder than a cow pissing on a flat rock, and we were forced to herd ourselves into a restaurant that ended up being very tastey. The waiter took this picture of us. We left a pretty good tip. Korey and I had the personal goal of getting Richard real drunk in Tlaquepeque, but he resisted. However, later that night, we bought a bottle of Tequilla and watched Old School and half of American Psycho, and dutifully achieved our goal.
One of the woes of google blogger is that it is very easy to accidently deleted a foto once you have uploaded it. Each time I upload a photo (notice how I accidentally spelled photo with the Spanish "f" above) a blank space is inserted at the top of the entry. Sometimes, when I try to delete these spaces so too are deleted the photos that I have just uploaded, or perhaps one I uploaded previously. The whole process is a son-of-a-bitch that me da rabia (infuriates me). At any rate, that's what happened about 2 minutes ago, and while I waited for the photo to be uploaded again, I produced this commentary.

Sorry for the brevity and seeming incompleteness of this entry, but that is how I feel about Tlaquepaque as well. It didn't much float my boat. I'm glad I went, but I won't go again unless the apocolypse starts to rear its ugly head in the fashion described by the cabbie.

Hazards of the Language Barrier, Part 1: Richard get's tossed

My first class each morning lasts from 9:00 a.m. until 10:45 a.m. or so. The professor, Angel, is an excellent one, and I always leave class with primed enthusiasm, better understanding of the language, and a need to use the bathroom. My classes during this second period are in a different building than those of last semester, el edificio de negocios (business building). The walk to class is slightly longer, and I climb an extra flight of stairs, leaving me a little winded when I arrive to class, but none of this drawbacks could outweigh the benefit of immeasurably better bathrooms. They are cleaner, have larger stalls (Hudini would have had trouble relieving himself in the stalls of the previous building), are void of puddles of water that force me to hold my pants around my knees to keep them from getting wet, and even have a higher quality brand of toilet paper. So I left the bathroom in an unavoidably dandy mood and climbed back up the stairs to my classroom where I ran into Korey. Korey related to me a story that I didn't expect. Not at all. She said: "So...Richard just told me he got kicked out of class."

Yass. Kicked out of class. In the files that Korey, Richard, and I store in our heads, Richard's grammar professor, Gloria, has a hefty rapsheet after only one week of classes. Gloria is Mexican, but easily achieves a higher mark on the Stu-Chipman Scale of un-Mexicanity than did the previous pack leader, Maggie (Korey's ex-host mother.) She is a funny shape, about 6' 1'', 105 lbs, with elbows and knees that look like garden stakes, a chin that looks like a spade, and cheekbones that look like a normal chin. Her hair is almost jet-black, and her eyes have a slightly Asian quality to them, which could be due to the incredible amount of time she spends with the Asian students studying at UAG. This process is described in a song by the Vapors' 1980 smash hit, "I think I'm turning Japanse." Japanese definitely qualifies as un-Mexican. For whatever reason, presumably the described transformation, Gloria has a poor understanding of all things fun, funny, or fun-related. She is unhumanly rational in a way that would make Fredrick Winslow Taylor nod with approval (but only for a second before he moved on to evaluate the efficiency of something else). Last Friday, when Richard stopped into class on our way to the doctor's office to tell Gloria that we would all be missing class on account of violent, abnormal discharge from both sides of our digestive system, Gloria was skeptical, and told Richard to return to class after he saw the doctor. Of course he did not, as we were diagnosed with gastriticiticisus or something like that, and none of we three could go more than 25 minutes without a visit to the bano (bathroom). Gloria then proceeded to lack any sort of helpful or compassionate character trait while Richard was trying to catch up in the classes he missed, collecting his assigments (completed with no direction), and grading them without giving him a chance to revise them and without returning them with an explanation of what he misunderstood or any correcting guidance. One can also deduce, by the vigor with which she persues social relations with the Asian students, that she has not other friends. On a final note, she has put on her daily quizzes to the class such questions as "If you were in love with your professor, would you tell her?" So that's Gloria.

Here are the events of the day: Richard was in his grammar class, and for whatever reason, there was a group of Asian students and Gloria laughing about something that meritted no laughter, certainly not the level of laughter which they were offering, and Richard took it upon himself to say, "Esta tonta." Of course, Richard meant this in the sense of "You're silly," "You're crazy," or "You're stupid (right now)." Gloria did not think this was funny or acceptable, nor did she take into account that Richard is well gringo and doesn't have a masterful understanding of the implications of all the words in the Spanish language. Her silly, un-called for expression turned to ice-cold, puppy-skinning resentment, she pointed at the door, and said "Afuera(out)." Richard tried to plead, apologize, and explain his error, but she simply repeated to say "afuera." So Richard left the classroom. He went and explained the situation to the director of the program, who took Richard back to class and negotiated conditions under which Richard could return to his learning position. Richard had to apologize to the entire class along with Gloria.

I think this unfortunate lack of social understanding on the part of the professor is, well, unfortunate. But when misfortune's worst injuries are Richard getting tossed out of class, I think it's hilarious.

Until next time, be safe, check the batteries in your smoke detectors, and enjoy summer.

Stu

Ziplines, Leprosy, and Drunk Three-year-olds.

In the United States, I was told more than once that La Universidad Autonoma de Guadalajara is comparable to the Duke of the United States: a very ritzy, hard to gain entry into, expensive, full of rich kids and geniuses, etc. I informed many people that this was the case. However, things here at the UAG (the oo-ah-hay), appear quite different. In a conversation with my professor here, I was told that it used to be one of the best schools in the Republic, with fantastic programs in law (derecho), medicine (medicina), education (educacion), engineering (inginieria), and virtually everything else. Since those days, programs have become outdated, and much of the prestige has left the school. The medical school is still one of the best in the country, and there are a piles of foreigners including Americans that come to the UAG to make themselves doctors, but in other areas, the percentage of geniuses has been replaced with country-club kids, because the school is still incredibly expensive. Everybody here wears really nice cloths, drives to school in there new cars, all that garbage. El departmento de intercambio (sound it out) is a different story, but we extranjeros (foreigners) still get to enjoy the flow of wealth through our host school. One sunny afternoon, there was a virtual carnival in the courtyard of the school, and all was free. So instead of returning home for lunch we rode ziplines from the 5th floor of academic buildings, raced eachother inside of 12-foot-tall bubbles, and jumped 30ft into the air on bungie-trampolines. The entire time, we could feel the education washing over us and the academia flowing through our vains.

One of the delayed tragedies of the Puerto Vallarta Trip (besides the aguamala, the bite of which can again be seen here; those white spots are the poison rushing into my body) was Richard's intense sunburn. He basically looked like a Hiroshima survivor or a lepor, go with whichever is less offensive to you. A week before we departed for the gran PV, I talked Richard into cutting his hair down to the length of mine, thereby exposing his tender, Northern-European head to more unforgiving Mexican sun. This didn't bode well on the playas of PV, and Richard was left in prolonged agony, and Korey and I were left being struck by giant flakes of scorched skin which flew from Richard's tormented scalp. To reduce the hazard of flying, disgusting objects, we borrowed a really stiff brush from Paco and exfoliated the hell out of Richard's noggen. This video here captures the emotion of the situation pretty well, with only minimal vulgarity or disturbing images. Unfortunately, there is no Spanish to be learned here. I apologize to Brittany Ockenfels, who has (through family members) expressed disgust with my choice to write this blog in the language of the motherland. My sympathies go out to Brittany, but the purposes of the blog are to entertain the folks back home and to let them know I'm still alive, only one of which would be accomplished by a blog in a language which only she and my brother could understand. With that, here is the video.

Yesterday, Korey moved in with the same family as Richard and I. This was a pretty big step for our friendship, but Richard and I decided it would be cool to not have to walk 25 minutes over to Korey's house all the time, and she doesn't shower in the morning, so it wouldn't really break our balls that much. Korey relocated because the ruling authority at her previous house, Maggie, was a nazi (not in a political sense, but it describes her attitude and level of hospitality well.) The family was fairly wealthy, but informed Korey that she shouldn't endulge in the many luxuries of their suburbanite life because it wasn't really Korey's house; she was just on vacation. It didn't matter that she paid $400 a month to live there. The rest of the family is very friendly and fun, but the said person really ruined it for everbody. She is possibly the most un-Mexican Mexican I have met here in Mexico. So Korey bounced.
To celebrate this relocation to a better place/ escape from evil, and to just generally express to our family how much we appreciate them being so fantastic, Richard, Korey, and I cooked some glorious American cuisine for everybody. Richard made this macaroni and cheese caserole that made one's pupils dilate and drool pour from the lower lip (because of sabor (flavor) not any added substances), I prepared some Magnolia Street-style shishkabobs on the grill that gave me an excellent opportunity to employ the wisdom handed down from Clayton Sheldon to my brother and to me from him (the deliciousness of these 'shkabobs, as well, left people in various states of euphoria), and Korey made fruit-pizza for dessert. The original plan for the fruit pizza was to have a sugar-cookie crust, but by the grace of God (probably the Catholic one), sugar cookie materials aren't sold in Mexico (and neither is lemon juice, oddly, which left me crushing lots of lemons to make the marinade), and Korey was forced to make the fruit pizza with a brownie crust. This fruit pizza was nothing short of heavenly, and even after everybody overate on the caserole and 'shkabobs, all found room for two or three helpings of dessert.
There were a number of setbacks along the way to feast-heaven. First, we slept in really late, so we didnt' really even go shopping until like, 1pm, and we were supposed to eat at 3pm. Then, we went to the supermarket, and they didnt' have everything that Korey needed, so Korey and Richard went to another supermarket to find that, and I carried the mountain of groceries that we had already bought back to the house (over a mile). En camino (on the way) to the house, all the bags broke, and I was forced to remove my shirt to carry them the rest of the way (75%). It made me wish I lifted more weights. Oh well. The people of Guadalajara were disgusted. What more, it took a while to get the grill lit. I blame the poor quality of the carbon we were using. It was a third the price of the rest, what could I expect? But after a 40-minute effort by Paco, Paco, and Stu, we got the thing lit. During this endeavor, I noticed in a newspaper we were using to create flames a strange advertisement. The peculiarity is pictured here. Or at least, it WOULD be pictured here if computer malfunctions hadn't ruined that for everybody. So instead, here is a picture of me and Korey being disgusted with the computer. A rough translation of the advertisement: "hospital for sale." Everything else went smooth.

While we feasted, 3-year-old Prescot Espino found his way into a cup of wine. What follows is the conversation surrounding the kid with the cup of wine, in the form of a screenplay:
Abuela (gma): "No, Prescott, tiene vino." (no, prescott, there is wine in this)
Prescott: "Me gusta el vino." (I like wine).
All: "Jajajajaja!" (hahahahaha).
(italicized), Prescott drinks the entire cup of wine and proceeds to stumble around and have mood swings.

Pictured here is the very cheery Prescott, on his way to la cuidad borracha (drunktown).








Until next time, keep it real, and eat your vegitables.

PEACE
stu

Despues de un dia (after one day)

The first 40-some hours of our trip have been slightly magical, and completely awesome without a doubt. The flights went smoothly with no delays, hijackings, or vomitting episodes (though Korey did express a great deal of anxiety during take-offs and landings). Korey got to the airport in Detroita little while after Richard and I, so she wasn't assigned seats next to ours. During the first flight, a fella from Michigan state was nice enough to excange seats with her so she could sit next to us (I told him she was my sister and terrified of flying, half true.) That flight was only about two hours, but it seemed longer because all three of us were tired as hell because we all stayed up until two or three in the morning overwhelmed with excitement. The second flight seemed even longer because of rapidly rising levels of excitement, and moreso because of the great misfortune of Richard and I being seated next to an off-duty flight attendent (formerly called stewardesses) who will easily gain entry into the Hall of Most Ridiculous People In the World. It wasn't even worth asking her to switch seats because it was clear that she was too dedicated to her mission of seducing the off-duty pilot seated behind her. For the next two hours Richard and I were forced to listen to her various explanations of why pink is such a great color, why it's great to be off duty, why all her belongings were pink, and why pink is such a great color.

As we flew over Guadalajara to land, we scoped out the city excitedly, but none of us thought to take an arial picture. We got off the plane, immidiately sweating in our Michigan gringo clothes, rolled through customs in less than 30 seconds, and found our driver holding a sign that said "Stuart Chipman, Korey Force." Evidently, they didn't care much about Richard. Our driver, Beto, was padre (cool). We talked with him for the entire 30 minute ride to our houses as he told us about the city, the university, and his four year stay in Milwaukee laying carpets.

We got to Korey's house, which is in this little, walled subdivision in a very wealthy part of Zapopan, the municipality just north of Guadalajara in which we live. We dropped her off and headed for our house. The neighborhood where we live is a little less removed from the urban hustle and the highways, which are a desmadre (situation messed up beyond all belief, chaos). Our house, however, is padrisimo (super padre), as is our family. Our parents, Paco y Rosi, live with this grandkids, Prescott and Sandre. A picture tour of the house will come later. We were supposed to have another roommate, Pat Bedell, who decided to cancel out of fear of the swine flu. However, the largest cockroach any of us have ever seen flew in from el jardin (the garden), and camped out on the wall in the living room. He stayed there all day, and was still there when we got back from out ten-hour safari into el centro, downtown Guadalajara. Paco terminated him when he got back from work, and these are his remains. So, as fate would have it, neither Pat Bedell managed to enjoy a trip to Guadalajara.
There is much much more, but I am out of time, so the content of the safari will be posted later, along with that of today's voyage to the same place. Until then, Salud y Buenes Suerte from Mexico.