Ricardo, Korey, Stu, and Ciprobac vs. The Spirit of Montezuma

For the past 48 hours, Richard, Korey, and I have been tormented by intense diarrhea and occasional vomiting. Collectively, we have missed 30 hours of class, and one hour of dance class due to this illness. We never drank the unfiltered water of Mexico, nor have we eaten food off the street. What agent introduced the illness is yet and will forever be unknown. Thursday morning was when I started experiencing symptoms, and I attributed my suffering to the activities of the previous night (the Cafe Tocuva concert, blog coming soon). However, when the pain and various discharge only increased with time, I was convinced that there was a separate power at play. Richard had been a little sick the day before, and then Korey fell ill on Friday. After spending all of Thursday night on the John, and throwing a substance with the color and consistency of green jello that has been pushed through one's front teeth, I began to fear for my well-being. Rosi and Paco sent us to the doctor at the UAG, free for students. We got up Friday morning and waddled to the bus stop trying not to crap ourselves, and took the bus to the UAG. There, were were diagnosed with intestinal infections. (some of the tests involved pressing on various points on our abdomen, which nearly caused us to soil his medical bench.) This is a common affliction among foreigners in Mexico, referred to as Montezuma's Revenge. Faced with the 400-year-old spirit of an Aztec Emperor, we decided we needed help, and teamed up with the antibiotic Cibrobac. They gave us most of the drugs for free, but we had to get some painkillers from the pharmacy, so we walked back. This was more or less a trail-of-tears sort of experience. We were all dehydtrated, filled with bacteria and the gas that comes with it, about to soil ourselves, and fatigued from lack of sleep. During the two mile hike back, I tried to use the bathroom at the pharmacy, but thankfully noticed there was no toilet paper before I went. Holding it thus, I powerwalked back to the house, once stubbing my toe on an un-level piece of sidewalkn, nearly causing a disaster.

After 24 horus of medication and rest, the 3 of us are recovering rapidly. The lesson here, it's nearly impossible to aviod the spirit of Montezuma, but he is no match for modern medicine.

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

What happens in Puerto Vallarta....goes on the blog for the world to see

I apologize for this giant empty space. I couldn't get rid of it without losing pictures. just scroll down. thanks. I will fill it with a picture of an old Church in PV and of Richard being dumb.













This past weekend, team Michigan-plus-one-from-Wisconsin departed for Puerto Vallarta. For roughly $130 dollars per person, we got tickets for the 4 1/2 hour bus ride to and from our destination--which came with really comfortable chairs, a non-stop flow of "Friends" in Spanish on good sized plasma screens, a bag lunch, and one screaming Mexican toddler--two nights at a 'four-star' all-inclusive resort (Mesa del Mar), and taxi ride from the airport to our overrated abode. Prices are down right now because todos los gringos tienen miedo del influenca y narcos (all the white people are afraid of the flu and druglords). All accomodations were about 40% cheaper than they were prior to the flu scare. It served us well, and we took advantage of the epidemic. The weekend trip was not always what one would call "fun," but it often was and it left us with a multitude of stories to tell. If this were a Law and Order episode, it would start:

"In the commercial tourist business of Mexico, white people are catered to by hordes of friendly workers, and encouraged to do anything that will equal profit or entertainment for the people of Mexico. Here are their stories."

The bus ride, as stated, was about 4.5 hours long. It was essentially all mountains, right up to the beaches of Puerto Vallarta, where there was about 200 feet of sand between the bases of the mountains and the Pacific ocean. We were very much in the jungle, which was wierd for me, because I only know the jungle from movies, and I have never seen a giant tour-bus clamoring through the jungle on a paved highway in any of those movies. I wouldn't mind seeing Harrison Ford or the Rock fight some infuriated aboriginal protector-of-ancient-treasure or some greedy British collector threatening the existence of the planet on the top of the big red bus we were riding in. If anybody reading this knows somebody in Hollywood, throw that one on the table, see what they think. At any rate, some of the gringas (white girls) were getting a little motion sick on the giant, swaggering bus as it barrelled through the wild at high altitudes, often overlooking rocky declines of death. Nobody threw up, though I almost did when I used the bus bathroom.

We got to Puerto Vallarta--after some confusion with the cabi over whether or now we were entitled to the ride we had already paid for at the travel agency-- and saw our hotel. I arrived believing that I was going to stay at a four-star resort with 4 restaurants and a bar, with wireless internet and phones and a TV. What we encountered was a four-star resort with one buffet-style restaurant 6 floors from our room (the elevators really didn't work) and one very limited restaurant on the beach (11 floors down the stairs) --both of these places closed at 10pm--there were no TVs, which didn't matter because we weren't going to watch it anyway, no phones, which didn't matter igualmente (equally), and no internet, which mattered alot because Korey and I were supposed to send stories into the Vanguard to be printed on Sunday (sorry Sarah). But we refused to be discouraged, and immediately went to the very limited bar with only three kinds of beer (estrella, Sol, y Dos Equis). This is my diagnosis of the situation: sometime around 194o of 1950, La Mesa Del Mar received a 4-star rating (it was one of three or four resorts at the time), and since then, it has just refused to be re-rated, not keeping up with the times and retaining its antique, 4-star status. If I were a critic, however, I would have given the beach 5-stars (until later chaos ensued). I was told most of the beaches in PV were rocky; ours was not. It was soft and sandy and the depth of the water increased at a perfect rate. The view was gorgeous, as one can see here. Also, Vicente brought us as many drinks and plates of nachos as we wanted while we were down on la playa (beach). There was a high risk of sunburn, which Korey and Richard chose to protect against with sunblock that Richard took from his African American friend (surprisingly, the sunblock failed and they were both burnt to a crisp.) I, on the other hand, went with SPF 1-million--the shade--and was only darkened while I frolicked in the waves or strolled on the beach. Pictured here are me and Korey, and a number of glasses that represents about 20% of the drinks we desired on the beach. Notice that Korey is drinking some wierd, pink, gringa shit and I am delving into a michelada, which I commonly refer to as the blood of Mexico.

There were other hazards on the beach, though, that provoke me to reduce my 5-star rating of the beach to a 2.5 star rating. Korey stepped on the severed head of a barracuda, cutting her foot. There were hour-long spans where we couldn't swim because there were flocks of sting-rays patroling the shore for Australian people. There were flocks of salesmen shoving cheap plastic crap in our faces, telling us that their family of artisans made it (I would then ask if Alfredo, the man who tried to sell me an identical blanket with the same story, is a part of his artisan family, at which point the truth was out and the vendor and I would just chat for a few more seconds before the went on to harass more people.) Alfredo tried really hard to sculpt his lie about how his family made blankets, even showing me a blanket with flaws in the pattern and telling me his children who were still learning made it. I saw the same blanket in several locations around PV. It hurt. There were also a number of diseased looking birds that had little respect for the cultural norms for social promity and chose to get close enough to me that I could have slapped it if I thought it wouldn't have started another epidemic in Mexico.

The most pressing threat on the beach, I think, were the aguamalas (jellyfish), also called "medusas." As we were all laughing and giggling like children in the waves, Richard complained that he thought he might have been bitten by something on the shoulder. We all gathered around in the knee-deep water to look at the tiny little pick-mark on Richard's shoulder. As we did so, a wave crashed into the back of our legs, carrying with it this spawn-of-satan, which wrapped itself around my lower leg, causing me to cry out in pain and sprint to shore. At first, it just stung, like I had been stung by a special-ops team of abejas (bees), but within minutes, the poison from the little bastards began to set in and the entire left side of my body was charged with a combination of two sensations: being struck in the testicles and wacking one's funny-bone on a marble counter. Pictured here is the mark left by the medusa. The picture doesn't capture the mark at all, so if you just imagine the Greek alphabet writen on the segment of leg shown here in a red, 3-D pen, you are imagining the scar. We tried several methods of abating the pain, most of which were drawn from knowledge Richard gained from an episode of Mythbusters. We scraped the back of my legs with cards to removed the small poison-pods. We rubbed hot sand on the leg. Richard peed on the wound (not a joke, that happened.) Here is me laying in agony as that mix of sensations I previously described began to set in. I also drank 4 shots of Vodka to numb myself. The only thing that immediately stopped the pain was Richard's urine, but I was so grossed out that I rinsed it off quickly and the relief was gone. A few minutes after we tried all the remedies but rubbing hot sand on it, we went back down to the beach, because I didn't want to ruin the party for everybody. When we got to the beach, they rubbed hot sand on the wound, and I began throwing up yellow bile from the pain. I know what you are thinking: are there any pictures of Stu throwing up? YES! but the bile really isn't captured, so you don't get to see the plutonium-like glow of absorbed jellyfish poison. Thankfully, I didn't lose any of the medicinal vodka I had ingested, and in short order I stopped feeling all together and we went on a walk down the beach where I happily told everybody of my misfortune, including the pee.

After several hours, the pain and drunkness began to fade, and we went into PV el centro to see the nightlife. But, before we went, we ate dinner. When dinner ended, Korey and Richard went to the bar and we the others sat and talked for about 25 minutes. In those 25 minutes, Korey and Richard exhausted the bar of its liquor. In a role reversal from Tequilla, I watched over them as they stomped around Puerto Vallarta. We stopped into on ridiculous club, watched a few minutes of ameteur rock music, saw alot of cool sand sculptures, played on some statues, and used a public restroom or two. After only about an hour, we went back to the hotel and stayed up really late telling life stories (once, going to the Oxxo to get ice cream.)

We got up the next day, checked out, and headed back to Guadalajara, where we didn't do the homework that was due in the morning and told everybody about how Richard peed on me.

Until next time, no hagas nada malo que no hiciera ya (don't do anything bad I wouldn't do.) And remember to brush your teeth.

-Stu

Buses in Guadalajara

Buses are known here not as autobuses as it says in dictionaries but as "camiones" which the dictionary will say means truck. Las camiones in Guadalajara are an experience. They are usually quite full, which isn't really a problem. The dirvers, however, make it a personal goal to make as many people fall on each trip as they possibly can. I have not yet fallen, but twice been fallen upon, once by a small child (no big deal), and once by a big lady (no small deal). Pictured here is the fullest bus we have boarded so far, and I am sure it will retain its number one ranking indefinitely. We had boarded a different bus to go downtown, but that one broke (not surpising the way it is driven), so we were all herded onto this bus which was already pretty full. For a little while, I was pressed right up against the door, and had the wind knocked out of me every time it opened. We were on this bus for about 40 minutes. It was easily over 100 degrees.

It sounds as though I complain and harbor resntment for buses, but in actuality I love them. They cost less than 50 cents per ride, and less than 10 cents in Chapala (blog coming soon), and are a wonderful place to practice Spanish. In el centro, the buses will go as fast as 60 mph down very narrow streets with cars parked on both sides. It may seem dangerous, then, to ride a bus, but I figure it's safer to be on the bus than in front of it. I have gained much confidence in drivers' ability as they navigate sharp corners and tiny streets with amazing smoothness. The hombres of the Guadalajara public transport system are among the most skilled professionals in all of Mexico, if not the world.

Tequila

Last Sunday, we six gringos from the Midwest grabbed a taxi and headed down to hop on the last surviving passenger train in the Republic of Mexico: the Tequilla Express. Running at 950 pesos per adult, tickets to board this decadent mode of transportation entitle the passenger to as much free alcohol and nueces (nuts) as one can consume without become violent or offensive. We realized the potential for intoxication and the possibility that we might all miss the return train if proper measures weren't taken. The plan we formulated was that I would drink little on the way down and play the part of guide the other five. Richard would cease consuming alcohol at lunch and then on the way back he was responsible for getting us a taxi and safely to our homes. This is all I will say of this: the plan failed miserably, but we all got home safely.
In the station, the passengers are presented with a fine group of mariachis. Here is a video for your viewing pleasure. These caballeros (gentlemen) also accompanied us onto the train to provide frequent serenading and great conversation in between. For many of these chavos, this is there sole employment and occupation: to play music on the Tequilla express. What a life that would be.


Aboard the train, chaos ensued. A principio (at first), we were surrounded by old, retired folk with big straw hats and golf shirts. After only a few minutes, the coordinator trotted back to ask the old-folk if they minded being moved to the middle of the train so that a group of loud, rambunctious Mexican youths could be moved to the back with the other jovenes (youths). Move they did, and our Mexican amigos arrived with trays of shots and chelas (drinks). Thus was broken the plan. Here are we all, throwing a little international pachanga (party). Except for the use of strong language, the trip could safely be rated PG-13. If one doesn't understand Mexican groseros (swear words), then it probably appeared to be more like PG-10 or 11.

We took a bus the last 10 minutes into Tequilla, where we went on a tour of 4 factories, one of which is now only a mueseum. Here, we were shown how Tequilla is produced. There is debate over how long this tour was. That night, Paco asked me how long it was and I said, "like ten minutes." Apparently, it was over two hours, say the others. I wasn't in the business of accounting for time until after lunch.
On the tour, we saw plants, very nice walkways, a really boring video, and finally, lunch. During lunch, there was entertainment including more marianchi music, some fancy lasso work, and dancing. At one point, Korey and Richard were dragged onto the dance floor by an old man with a dream of teaching gringos to dance. It ended kind of badly, with the old man encouraging Korey to jump onto him, at which point he was to swing her around. He is probably getting that hip replaced as I type.

Also pictured here are Lauren and me with the donkey guy. The posture I have right here, appearing to just be very freindly with Lauren, was more of a strategy for standing up. Not to say that Lauren and I aren't good enough freinds for a nice sidehug, but several of the people who received side-hugs from me that day were just acquaintences, or complete strangers who smiled at me, opening the door for a side-hug. These were usually old Mexican dudes or Mariachis. We talked about Michigan, about how the world isn't what it used to be, and about dancing. Any conversation can be enhanced by a single outstretched arm, lots of Tequilla, and a tropical environment.

The twins and I boarded the return bus while Richard and Korey were helping Janel to the bathroom (she drank too much.) The bus left without them, but we were told there would be other buses. There were, and they rest of team Michigan made it back just in time to board the train. The return ride was much more mellow, filled with conversation and number exchanging (should we ever need a place to stay in Oaxaca, D.F., or Guanajuato.) We got back to the station in Guadalajara and went to hail a cab when were were stopped by some freindly Mexican ladies who told us their friends could take us where we needed to go. We had a choice of two cars, one with a driver who was clearly plasted beyond his capacity to operate a vehicle safely, and one with Oscar. We got in (all six of us) into Oscar's car and went to get some Tacos Arabes. Richard left his digital camera in this car, and has yet to reacquire it. Pictured here is the completely drunk guy at Tacos Arabes sporting a luchador mask, something that sober people who aren't professional fighters rarely do. That being said, Richad has a couple times, enchanted with nostalgia for Ray Mysterio.

I said earlier that the return ride was much more mellow. That may be a false statement. I had forgotten the dancing that occurred on the way home. Here is a picture of that. Certainly, though, after the dancing stopped we the ride was much more mellow. For me, it had already calmed down. I am sitting in that blue-green chair just under the right nipple of Alejandro here, talking to Eduardo, who is a pilot in D.F. (Mexico City), and Hector (in the white shirt), who owns several restaurants in and around D.F. It was a nice chat, and I am not at all jealous of Korey, who had pure Tequilla sweated upon her, and 70% Tequilla drooled upon her from that outstretched tongue. A juevos.

Picture Introduction of La Familia

La familia that Richard and I stay with is easily the highest ranking family of any of the families hosting SVSU students--in all categories. Paco and Rosi live with their two grandchildren, Prescott and Sandra. They have no pets, apart from the occasional cockroach. Paco and Rosi have two sons, one of whom still lives here in Guadalajara and the other who lives in Las Vegas. They lead different sort of lives, the sons. We see Paco junior every couple days or so, he is 22. We call him Paco Junior, Paco Pequeno, Pacito, Poco Paco, Paco Menor, or Paco El Segundo.

I will begin with the kids, because I think Rosi and Paco are way cooler, and I like to finish strong. Prescott is 3 years old. 90% of his vocabulary is "mira" (look). He makes it his business to hold frequent, involuntary show-and-tell sessions, putting on display everything from toys, to pieces of food, to small acrobatic feats. He also patrols the living room and hallway on his bike, pictured here, with little regard for the well-being of toes. He is easily pleased by one picking him up and running around with him in an airplane position, or just spinning him around. That ended badly once; after Richard and him went for a tornado session, Prescott tried to walk too soon and smashed into Sandra. Chaos ensued. Once, Prescott wandered into our room, and said "mira." He didn't have anything in his hands and didn't try to do anything impressive, so we were confused. I asked "a que?" (at what?), and he said, "A mis pantalones nuevas" (at my new pants.) Good moment with Prescott. We also have occasional futbol showdowns en el jardin. In all honesty, Prescott has yet to develope any sort of coordination. He might just not have it in him, but he has fun because he just reinvents the rules to provide himself with an advantage.

Sandra is 2 years old. She is far more sinister than Prescott, nearly always the antagonist of the all-too-frequent guerritas (little wars), which involve lots of high-pitches screaming by both of the ninos. She is alot less fun to play with than Prescott, mostly because she responds poorly to being picked up and swung around usually, or when she decides she likes it, putting her down results in 5 seconds of attempts to climb you, followed by minutes of screaming and crying. This is how she deals with most situations, exploiting her grandparent's old age and depleted energy to obtain that which she desires at any instant. She also employs the following strategy: torment Prescott, hope to not get caught; if she does get caught, she immediately cries as though she has been somehow victimized. It's a dastardly move. I will offer Sandra one semi-compliment; every time Rosi turns on the sound system, she dances joyously and enthusiastically. However, this usually ends with either her or Prescott falling and being stepped on, which results in screaming and crying. BUT!, she does do a great impression of an old lady walking, which is pretty funny coming from a 2-year-old.

Next is Rosi, who I think I have mentioned could probably resolve the Isreali-Palestinian conflict with her cooking, though she confesses to not enjoying cooking. Rosi talks way too fast for us to understand, especially in the mornings. Her father was one of the founders of La Universidad Autonomo de Guadalajara (our school). She has a bad experience with a Chicano student who lived with them once, and decided to request Gringos. Following that request, she recieved two gringas that spoke no Spanish at all, and weren't interested in learning. She is therefore overjoyed to have Richard and I here, even if we only understand 40% of what she says. My ability to understand Rosi will be the standard by which I measure my improvement and progress in learning the Spanish language. Rosi has a fantastic sense of humor, always cracking jokes, which we usually understand, but if not, we laugh really hard to make her feel good, and Paco explains them to us later. I don't mind at all, because Rosi is fun to laugh with regardless of the level of comprehension. Last night, they had freinds over, and Richard and I sat with them drinking Tequilla in el jardin until 2am or so, when we went to bed. They didn't leave until 5am. Here in Mexico, there is no expected age at which one should cease having a nightlife. Keep on rocking.

Paco Mejor, Paco Grande, Paco Padrisimo, or simplemente (simply) Paco, is the business. There is no area of his character in which there is room for improvement. He is fantastically hospitable, genergous, patient, friendly, humorous, helpful, and kind. He too, is fun to laugh with, but he is better at reading when we don't understand than Rosi, and is very gifted at communicating his ideas. He would be an Olympic Charades player if given the opportunity. Paco is an abogado (lawyer), working for the government as either a prosecutor or a public defender, I'm not sure. The house gets alot of calls from the jail though, so I am thinking public defender. Paco is also a huge fan of Google Earth, and often has us show him where we live, go to school, and even our favorite restaurants. Paco is also very conscious of his health. Each day, he eats a designated number of gorgojos. Now, you might be asking yourself, "what the hell are gorgojos?" Well, I'll tell you what gorgojos are. They are tiny little insects that, when ingested, secrete chemicals that improve one's health in several ways. Pictured here are the benevolent bugs. Paco's character is such that his eating bugs makes me consider doing it instead of declaring that he is crazy. Buen hombre. Padrisimo (super cool.)

That is the family. I leave you with these three pictures, of Korey and Richard drinking micheladas, and me loving mine. These were far superior to the other micheladas, but still could not win the hearts of my gringo friends, who have since resorted to fruity drinks or Coronas.