So I know it has been several days since I have written, but nothing truly unique and exciting has happened. Or a lot of really cool stuff has happened, but sometimes it gets hard to say anything when there is so much to say (imagine that from me).
This is a nothing entry because I really have nothing to say. I am off to Leon tonight. . I start my internship tomorrow morning. I am titilating (that word is so incredibly mispelled that I can't even blame the keyboard) with excitement and nervousness. . .so nervous. I swear my Spanish is worse today than it was when I entered the country. It's like now I am aware of all of the mistakes that I am making. .before I just made them cluelessly. Sigh. . I just keep reminding myself that fluency is a journey rather than a destination. . I'm not really sure what it means, but it's poetic in a cheesy way and it makes me feel better. Now instead of just stringing together several random words in random tenses, I stop and start my sentances over and over again, repeat a verb in 5 different tenses (preterite, imperfect, wait, no, conditional, or maybe this is where I use the subjuntive), stutter through long words and then hit my head against the table in a feeble attempt to convey that I know what I said was about as intelligable as the squeaks of a dolphin. Trying to learn another language is truly a form of masichism. And then yesterday in walks a Czech girl living in the states who is fluent in English, Czech, and can understand about 6 other languages. And her Spanish is far superior to mine and she has only been studying it since January. . .she takes the occasional class, listens to the radio, and reads. Some people just have the gift. . and yes, I am jealous of them.
I have people that I have to go say Adios to. It's amazing how you run in to the most incredible people when you travel, but more on that later.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Comentario (Chapter 4)
So that was my night on the town. It was a blast - so much activity and excitement. Still, I'm just not sure I am cut out to do it every night, or really any more than once in a while, and I am pretty sure that means that I am old. But I am ok with that, because I like daylight.
That said, I think I'd be up for it at least once more before I leave this town.
Another totally unrelated comment on the nature of tourist towns. The interaction between tourists and locals is fascinating. Locals become excellent at remaining detatched while making each tourist feel unique and special, as though they are the only tourist that they have ever talked with, danced with, felt like this about, hooked up with. The more naive tourists become excellent in snowing themselves - they convince themselves that we are unique, they are different than the tourists that were here a week ago, they are forming some sort of deep relationship. For the most part, no one really steps out of their roles. Some completely disengage and observe cynically from the side. Others (probably like myself) only half engage, casually participating without wanting (or expecting) any follow through, occasionally stepping away to observe cynically, but still reluctant to completely walk away from a possibility (sort of like agnostisim)
Both sides use each other - it is a thinly veiled contract. And yet, it amazes me (is wonderful) how many people really, truly believe that their situation is different. And, to be fair, ccasionally meaningful relationships are formed, but the reality is that is difficult to do in a town that people are constantly filtering through It's a lot of hope, I guess.
That said, I think I'd be up for it at least once more before I leave this town.
Another totally unrelated comment on the nature of tourist towns. The interaction between tourists and locals is fascinating. Locals become excellent at remaining detatched while making each tourist feel unique and special, as though they are the only tourist that they have ever talked with, danced with, felt like this about, hooked up with. The more naive tourists become excellent in snowing themselves - they convince themselves that we are unique, they are different than the tourists that were here a week ago, they are forming some sort of deep relationship. For the most part, no one really steps out of their roles. Some completely disengage and observe cynically from the side. Others (probably like myself) only half engage, casually participating without wanting (or expecting) any follow through, occasionally stepping away to observe cynically, but still reluctant to completely walk away from a possibility (sort of like agnostisim)
Both sides use each other - it is a thinly veiled contract. And yet, it amazes me (is wonderful) how many people really, truly believe that their situation is different. And, to be fair, ccasionally meaningful relationships are formed, but the reality is that is difficult to do in a town that people are constantly filtering through It's a lot of hope, I guess.
En Finalamente (Chapter 3)
But no, our night was not over. . .from here we went to another bar (La Dama de Las Camelias) and my companions had more beers, I ordered water (by this time I had stopped. . actually I had stopped a while ago. . apparently I am a lightweight now a days. . .interestingly, one of my teachers told me that the difference between an average party night and a special party night is 20 and 40 beers. . that's a lot of beer, either way).
This bar (an afterbar) had a Cuban feel and the music was a little slower and the dancing a little less intimidating. Unfortunately, we were pretty much done with the dancing. We just talked and joked and watched one of our companions (Esme) sink into a fairly drunken stupor. By the way, the cast of characters is: Rolando, Luis, Esme, Sarah, Me, Laura, and Meme (the latter two left earlier).
It was great. By the end of the night strangers were engaging in other stranger's conversations and no one could really say anything straight. I couldn't understand a damn conversation I was evesdropping on, but I'm pretty sure it was not due to my Spanish comprehension level. I overheard one conversation that went like this:
Hable?
Hables. .
Habla?
Hables, hables. .
Si. . Hables?
Hables, hables, hables, hables.
I'm not joking. It was awesome.
The most surreal part of the night was when a gringo our age dressed in hip-hop type clothing (big baseball hat, big, low-riding pants, jersey) kneeled down to our level (by this time we were all sitting/squatting on the floor) and started begging a ciggarete off of Esme and Luis, in excellent Spanish. And then he started talking to Sarah and apparently they are both from the same town in Colorado. . and he's been here for three years. That was when I started looking for the video cameras, because it was so strange, so very very strange.
This bar (an afterbar) had a Cuban feel and the music was a little slower and the dancing a little less intimidating. Unfortunately, we were pretty much done with the dancing. We just talked and joked and watched one of our companions (Esme) sink into a fairly drunken stupor. By the way, the cast of characters is: Rolando, Luis, Esme, Sarah, Me, Laura, and Meme (the latter two left earlier).
It was great. By the end of the night strangers were engaging in other stranger's conversations and no one could really say anything straight. I couldn't understand a damn conversation I was evesdropping on, but I'm pretty sure it was not due to my Spanish comprehension level. I overheard one conversation that went like this:
Hable?
Hables. .
Habla?
Hables, hables. .
Si. . Hables?
Hables, hables, hables, hables.
I'm not joking. It was awesome.
The most surreal part of the night was when a gringo our age dressed in hip-hop type clothing (big baseball hat, big, low-riding pants, jersey) kneeled down to our level (by this time we were all sitting/squatting on the floor) and started begging a ciggarete off of Esme and Luis, in excellent Spanish. And then he started talking to Sarah and apparently they are both from the same town in Colorado. . and he's been here for three years. That was when I started looking for the video cameras, because it was so strange, so very very strange.
Just Like The Wind (Chapter 2)
Oh those who can dance, how I envy you. You move your high heels to the rhythym, your hands always know where to go. Your arms, nothing like the wet spaghetti so dreaded by Patrick Swayze. You spin, again, again, again, and eight more times, never once stumbling from diziness. You relinquish control of decision making, and yet, you are not a passive lump of clay. You are active, engaged, filled with passion and expression.
Okay. . I'll put that out of it's misery. . forgive my attempt at being poetic. . while it's not early, I went to bed late.
Point being, there are some people here in this town who can dance, Mexicans and gringas and Japanese alike. The grinding and booty shaking that people do all over the world, that's not as hard as I once thought it was. Ballroom dancing, salsa. . that's a challenge.
We had some great conversations at the Cuba Mia (the Salsa Bar) last night. . mostly in Spanish, occasionally in English. We talked politics, we talked about how to tell people from different countries apart, we talked beer. And then some of our other teachers came into the bar and we went to join them. This is when the music got loud, the talking stopped, and the dancing started. So we all danced a little, but mostly we watched the almost professionals. There were about 6 or 7 people who I was just enamored with. They all kept switching around with each other (I think several of them teach salsa at this place). It was awesome too, since the guys even danced with the guys. . which were probably the best dances of the night. They were imaginative yet controlled. I really did feel like I was watching Dirty Dancing.
And speaking of Dirty Dancing, at one point during the night, I made eyes with one of the 'professionals' (as I like to call them). We exchanged smiles and, just as my group was getting ready to leave (at like, oh 3:30), he came up and asked me to dance. We danced. . well, he danced and I stumbled. But he was a good teacher, good at controling my direction, good at helping me feel the music, good at not letting me leave to join my group, and by our third dance, I think I was feeling it a little more. He was not modest, he knew he was amazing. I felt like this lump of clay that he was molding. . . I felt like his project. This was all augmented by his not so subtle attempts to charm me: he would not speak to me in Spanish, he tried to figure out how long I was in town, he tried to make me feel special (just like I'm sure he did to the girl who was here last week). It was not important that he was almost certainly gay. It was a harmless game and I was loving it. So after two and a half glorious dances, my friends finally came up to get me and I was reluctantly pulled out of my eighties fantasy. Just call me Baby.
Okay. . I'll put that out of it's misery. . forgive my attempt at being poetic. . while it's not early, I went to bed late.
Point being, there are some people here in this town who can dance, Mexicans and gringas and Japanese alike. The grinding and booty shaking that people do all over the world, that's not as hard as I once thought it was. Ballroom dancing, salsa. . that's a challenge.
We had some great conversations at the Cuba Mia (the Salsa Bar) last night. . mostly in Spanish, occasionally in English. We talked politics, we talked about how to tell people from different countries apart, we talked beer. And then some of our other teachers came into the bar and we went to join them. This is when the music got loud, the talking stopped, and the dancing started. So we all danced a little, but mostly we watched the almost professionals. There were about 6 or 7 people who I was just enamored with. They all kept switching around with each other (I think several of them teach salsa at this place). It was awesome too, since the guys even danced with the guys. . which were probably the best dances of the night. They were imaginative yet controlled. I really did feel like I was watching Dirty Dancing.
And speaking of Dirty Dancing, at one point during the night, I made eyes with one of the 'professionals' (as I like to call them). We exchanged smiles and, just as my group was getting ready to leave (at like, oh 3:30), he came up and asked me to dance. We danced. . well, he danced and I stumbled. But he was a good teacher, good at controling my direction, good at helping me feel the music, good at not letting me leave to join my group, and by our third dance, I think I was feeling it a little more. He was not modest, he knew he was amazing. I felt like this lump of clay that he was molding. . . I felt like his project. This was all augmented by his not so subtle attempts to charm me: he would not speak to me in Spanish, he tried to figure out how long I was in town, he tried to make me feel special (just like I'm sure he did to the girl who was here last week). It was not important that he was almost certainly gay. It was a harmless game and I was loving it. So after two and a half glorious dances, my friends finally came up to get me and I was reluctantly pulled out of my eighties fantasy. Just call me Baby.
Roma (Chapter 1)
So last night I did the whole when in Rome thing. Or, as they say here, 'Al lugar donde vayas, hay lo que veas.' For those of you that know about my tendency to hear the stroke of midnight and say, 'wow, I am up so, so, so late,' be proud, be very proud. I stayed up until 5:30 last night. Or 5:30 in the morning, whichever you prefer or whichever sounds more impressive. That's the thing to do here. Stay up really late, drink a lot, dance a lot, stumble home a lot. It pretty much happens every night of the week. Before coming here, I thought I knew what a party town was. I didn't. I now know that a party town is a town where there is no distinction between the type of party that one finds on Monday and the type of party that one finds on Saturday. Every night is packed with activity, every night is a rager, every night is fun, fun, fun.
I find this slightly disconcerting, being from the old school way of thinking of Friday, Saturday, and if you're really crazy, Wednesday or Thursday are party days (each with a slightly different feel). How does one tell the difference between days? What does one look forward to? When do you ever have the chance to rest? How do you tell if someone is a real party animal, totally wild and crazy, or just a poser? I asked this of my fellow party-goers last night (I'll get to them in a second) and, apparently, there is a slight increase in the intensity of partying on Thursday because many students go home on Friday for the Weekend. For some reason, I find this very comforting. . .I think it's a sign that I am getting old (more on that later too).
Today several of my teachers don't have to work. In their contract, they get holidays off and a while back they didn't get Semana Santa off, so they took a make-up day today. We students benefited greatly from this decision. Our teachers decided to party last night as though they did not have work today, and they were kind enough to invite us along. First we went to a bar, then we went to another bar, and then we went to a Salsa bar. It was here that I realized that I am actually very inept at dancing (I had previously thought that I could sort of hold my own on a dance floor. . I was a fool).
I find this slightly disconcerting, being from the old school way of thinking of Friday, Saturday, and if you're really crazy, Wednesday or Thursday are party days (each with a slightly different feel). How does one tell the difference between days? What does one look forward to? When do you ever have the chance to rest? How do you tell if someone is a real party animal, totally wild and crazy, or just a poser? I asked this of my fellow party-goers last night (I'll get to them in a second) and, apparently, there is a slight increase in the intensity of partying on Thursday because many students go home on Friday for the Weekend. For some reason, I find this very comforting. . .I think it's a sign that I am getting old (more on that later too).
Today several of my teachers don't have to work. In their contract, they get holidays off and a while back they didn't get Semana Santa off, so they took a make-up day today. We students benefited greatly from this decision. Our teachers decided to party last night as though they did not have work today, and they were kind enough to invite us along. First we went to a bar, then we went to another bar, and then we went to a Salsa bar. It was here that I realized that I am actually very inept at dancing (I had previously thought that I could sort of hold my own on a dance floor. . I was a fool).
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Plans that don't always work
My stomach has been acting up since I got here. . .perhaps even before I got here.
It was pissing me off, and I was getting tired of having a low grade ickiness underlying everthing I do. Granted, having to deal with stomach stuff is the burden every traveller must bear. In truth, it is a small price to pay.
But still, two days ago, I decided that I was going to beat my stomach into submission. The plan was this. . I would eat street food, I would eat meat, I would have juice. . all of the things that a careful, health conscious traveller is not supposed to do, but all of the things that make being in another country worthwhile.
Perhaps this was a mistake.
For a day and a half, things were going splendidly. But then, my stomach fought back with a vengance. I will spare you the details, but it's been a while since I have eaten. I had a little this morning, but I have retreated back to rice cakes, peanut butter, and water. So my stomach has bested me this round. But I am not defeated. I will return twice as strong (and twice as stupid). I will survive to, once again, eat all of the street food that I desire. Ice cream, juice, ceviche. . .it will all be mine, I will live to tell the day.
But for now, I shy away from the light and crawl back into the darkness of my room.
It was pissing me off, and I was getting tired of having a low grade ickiness underlying everthing I do. Granted, having to deal with stomach stuff is the burden every traveller must bear. In truth, it is a small price to pay.
But still, two days ago, I decided that I was going to beat my stomach into submission. The plan was this. . I would eat street food, I would eat meat, I would have juice. . all of the things that a careful, health conscious traveller is not supposed to do, but all of the things that make being in another country worthwhile.
Perhaps this was a mistake.
For a day and a half, things were going splendidly. But then, my stomach fought back with a vengance. I will spare you the details, but it's been a while since I have eaten. I had a little this morning, but I have retreated back to rice cakes, peanut butter, and water. So my stomach has bested me this round. But I am not defeated. I will return twice as strong (and twice as stupid). I will survive to, once again, eat all of the street food that I desire. Ice cream, juice, ceviche. . .it will all be mine, I will live to tell the day.
But for now, I shy away from the light and crawl back into the darkness of my room.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Besame, mime, besame
So on top of all of the other things going on in this city, for the last two nights there has been a mime performing in front of the steps of the Teatro Juarez. All the children gather on the step and giggle uncontrollably at the antics of the mime. The adults gather behind the mime and giggle a little more controllably at the antics of the mime.
I was one of those adults and one of the only gringas around and apparently the mime noticed me because as I ventured off for home he started to walk beside me. He held out his hand, so like a good prop, I put my hand in his. He walked with me for a little bit while the children shouted 'Besale, Besale' (Kiss her). So he pulled me toward him and leaned into to kiss me. I thought, I'll be clever and give him my cheek, which he kissed. Then he turned and asked for a kiss back. So I obliged and he turned his head and our lips met. . . everyone laughed and laughed.
I fell for the oldest trick in the book, and like a tourist, I was kissed by my very first mime (sorry, terrible, terrible reference).
I was one of those adults and one of the only gringas around and apparently the mime noticed me because as I ventured off for home he started to walk beside me. He held out his hand, so like a good prop, I put my hand in his. He walked with me for a little bit while the children shouted 'Besale, Besale' (Kiss her). So he pulled me toward him and leaned into to kiss me. I thought, I'll be clever and give him my cheek, which he kissed. Then he turned and asked for a kiss back. So I obliged and he turned his head and our lips met. . . everyone laughed and laughed.
I fell for the oldest trick in the book, and like a tourist, I was kissed by my very first mime (sorry, terrible, terrible reference).
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Mayo
May is a great month to be in Guanajuato. The entire month is dedicated to the celebration of the Basilica Colegiata de Nuestra Senora de Guanajuato, the very large Churrigueresque style church built in 1693. There are parades and demonstrations practically every night. Tonight right outside my home away from home a massive procession passed by. First there were about seventy-six trombones, 110 clarinets right behind, they were followed by rows and rows of the finest virtuos. Oh wait, wrong parade. Sorry. .. and that's a joke that probably three of you got.
Back to the parade. . .there really were rows and rows of people playing drums and blowing horns - every single arm of the military was represented. The cutest part was that each group had little toddlers playing little drums and little horns. They were followed by dancing, whip-cracking children dressed up as cows and cowboys and señoras and evil men. It's part of a torredor celebration, which I still haven't really learned about (no one really seemed to know why it is performed). Behind them were people dressed in what appeared to be traditional indigenous clothing - feather headresses and beaded tunics - they were performing these beautiful dances to very rhythmic drumming. After them followed children dressed as angels carrying candles (the cutest thing here was one kid who had fallen asleep and was being carried by his mom). After that, a huge float of flowers and the Virgin Mary being carried on the shoulders of over a dozen men. A very long electrical cord provided the light for the float. And they were followed by a Mariachi band.
Not too bad for a Sunday night in May.
And tonight. . Monday night. . . a huge parade of taxis. Oh yes, over a hundred green and white taxis with balloons and Religious figures on the roofs. . .the taxis are filled with what I would assume is the family of the taxi driver and children lined up on the streets to catch the candy that they are throwing out of the windows.
Wow. . .will the amazements never cease??
And tonight. . Monday night. . . a huge parade of taxis. Oh yes, over a hundred green and white taxis with balloons and Religious figures on the roofs. . .the taxis are filled with what I would assume is the family of the taxi driver and children lined up on the streets to catch the candy that they are throwing out of the windows.
Wow. . .will the amazements never cease??
Ups and Downs
This town is filled with winding streets (callejoneadas) that take you far above the city. They are mostly made of stone and at times there are stairs. They narrow and the buildings crowd above you. And then they widen and you can see an expanisve view of the city below and the brightly colored buildings crawling up the opposite side of the valley. And just as you start to think, well, I guess I'd better turn around cause I don't know where the hell I am, the callejoneada runs into a major street, or it takes a sharp turn downhill, and suddenly you are oriented. They are wonderful for absent-minded wandering and for a moment of peace; walk up a side street for 50 feet and, compared to the craziness of el centro, you have entered a ghost town. And if you get lost? Just go downhill.
Boom Crash Bach
There are certain types of weather that go with certain types of music. For example, Reggae calls for a hot summer day. Bluegrass reminds me of early spring mornings. Classic rock begs for driving during a brisk, windy fall day. And organ music? Well, organ music needs lightining and thunder and rain.
So here's the setting. A big cathedralesque church called Templo de Campañia. It was built in 1765 by the Jesuits, the exterior is Churrigueresque and the interior has a simple beauty to it. It's one of the sites of the annual Guillermo Pinto Reyes international week+ long festival that occurs here. Mass ends, pews are moved, darkness falls, lights are dimmed, and out walks a man with white, shoulder-length hair. He bends over the balcony in a low bow (the organ is on the upper floor, we watch him play via a projection onto a screen). He's dressed in black, which is undoubtedly the most appropriate color for a man with white long hair who plays the organ. He gives off an air of mild insanity, which, again, is the most appropriate state of being for a man dressed in black with white long hair, who plays the organ. The organ itself is a sort-of mad man instrument. The chords and blurred sound and sheer size of the instrument conjur this image of a tortured soul hunched over the keyboard in the dark of night in an echoing church.
His name was José Suárez. He was quite good. Or at least I think he was quite good, he is very accomplished, so others seem to think that he is very good as well. In truth, this was my first organ concert ever and really the only other person I knew who played the organ was my Grandma Betty and I don't think she was very good.
But the concert was so much more than his playing. About halfway through his 4th piece, a low, rolling thunder could be heard. An occasional flash could be seen through the windows. It gathered in a slow crescendo, only to climax during his last piece, which was, by far his best (Fantasía y fuga en la menor BWV 561 by Bach). It was quite a spectacular finale and I'm not sure I will ever be able to attend another organ concert unless it is accompanied by lightining and thunder.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Backstreet Boys at the Rodeo
This was fun.
Last night I went out with my teacher to a concert. We had to take a taxi to get there, it was far away. A bit further than I thought it was going to be since I thought it was going to be within walking distance. It was so far away that I thought, 'Where the fuck are we going?' (btw. . I apologize if swearing offends you, it's just I never really got over the novelty of swear words and, well, I use them when I talk, so I'll use them when I write. . if it really bugs you, you can email me with the reasons why and I'll consider no longer using them). It was so far that I started to get a little nervous, which is probably an appropriate feeling for me to have, being a girl in a strange land with a somewhat strange man. Plus, he didn't know where we were going, the taxi driver didn't know where we were going, and I certainly didn't know where we were going. There was a bit of confusion for a while.
But after stopping to ask for directions, we pulled into a big outdoor concert place. I think it might have been where they have rodeos and such, I'm not sure. It was a dirt floor, there was lots of wind, and there were lots of bright, colorful lights. We were some of the first people there, but the first band was already playing. They separated girls from boys, women from men, inspected our things, and let us in.
The teacher I was with (I´ll call him Rolando, since that's his name) told me that it was a poppy twist on traditional Mexican beats and songs. I asked him if he liked it and he said 'No, well, sort of, it's ok. . it's fun to dance to.' And he was right, it didn't move me deep down in my soul, but it was fun, catchy, and very dancable in that 'Shit I don't really know how to dance to this' kind of way. There were several bands. . one band even played 'In the Summertime' in Spanish. It's much better in Spanish.
The bands on stage danced and had great voices and there was a lot of synthesizer, fog machines were everywhere, several drum machines, lots of cowboy hats, a very short skirt and a pair of shiny green leather pants. And they have this brilliant idea of having two stages on opposite ends of the concert arena so that, when the openers are done, the main band doesn't have to spend all of this time setting up, the audience just turns around.
It was great people watching. It was exactly like a middle school dance or going to the amusment park in middle school, or what a backstreet boys concert would be like, although I never went to one (I swear). Lots of screaming and swooning for the band (especially this one band dressed in matching white suits), lots of flirting, lots of whispering and boys asking girls to dance and then the dance and then each gender running to their friends to giggle and whisper more. Ahh. . young love. . .I definitely felt a little old, although later on in the evening older couples started coming, and that made me feel less old.
When the band dressed in white played, they invited all of the ladies to come up, and all of the ladies came up and filed through, first giving the singer, then the guitarist, then the keyboardist a kiss, sometimes on the cheek, sometimes on the mouth. And the band didn't miss a beat. I was very impressed.
The main band wasn't playing until like 2 or 3 and the third band was a sleeper, and I'm old, so we went home. And that's the end of this story. No great revelations or anything, but it was a good time.
Last night I went out with my teacher to a concert. We had to take a taxi to get there, it was far away. A bit further than I thought it was going to be since I thought it was going to be within walking distance. It was so far away that I thought, 'Where the fuck are we going?' (btw. . I apologize if swearing offends you, it's just I never really got over the novelty of swear words and, well, I use them when I talk, so I'll use them when I write. . if it really bugs you, you can email me with the reasons why and I'll consider no longer using them). It was so far that I started to get a little nervous, which is probably an appropriate feeling for me to have, being a girl in a strange land with a somewhat strange man. Plus, he didn't know where we were going, the taxi driver didn't know where we were going, and I certainly didn't know where we were going. There was a bit of confusion for a while.
But after stopping to ask for directions, we pulled into a big outdoor concert place. I think it might have been where they have rodeos and such, I'm not sure. It was a dirt floor, there was lots of wind, and there were lots of bright, colorful lights. We were some of the first people there, but the first band was already playing. They separated girls from boys, women from men, inspected our things, and let us in.
The teacher I was with (I´ll call him Rolando, since that's his name) told me that it was a poppy twist on traditional Mexican beats and songs. I asked him if he liked it and he said 'No, well, sort of, it's ok. . it's fun to dance to.' And he was right, it didn't move me deep down in my soul, but it was fun, catchy, and very dancable in that 'Shit I don't really know how to dance to this' kind of way. There were several bands. . one band even played 'In the Summertime' in Spanish. It's much better in Spanish.
The bands on stage danced and had great voices and there was a lot of synthesizer, fog machines were everywhere, several drum machines, lots of cowboy hats, a very short skirt and a pair of shiny green leather pants. And they have this brilliant idea of having two stages on opposite ends of the concert arena so that, when the openers are done, the main band doesn't have to spend all of this time setting up, the audience just turns around.
It was great people watching. It was exactly like a middle school dance or going to the amusment park in middle school, or what a backstreet boys concert would be like, although I never went to one (I swear). Lots of screaming and swooning for the band (especially this one band dressed in matching white suits), lots of flirting, lots of whispering and boys asking girls to dance and then the dance and then each gender running to their friends to giggle and whisper more. Ahh. . young love. . .I definitely felt a little old, although later on in the evening older couples started coming, and that made me feel less old.
When the band dressed in white played, they invited all of the ladies to come up, and all of the ladies came up and filed through, first giving the singer, then the guitarist, then the keyboardist a kiss, sometimes on the cheek, sometimes on the mouth. And the band didn't miss a beat. I was very impressed.
The main band wasn't playing until like 2 or 3 and the third band was a sleeper, and I'm old, so we went home. And that's the end of this story. No great revelations or anything, but it was a good time.
The Obligatory Introductory Blog Entry
Yup, I'm here.
And now you are reading about me being here.
'Where is here?,' you ask. Here is Gunajuato, Mexico for 2 weeks (to frantically improve my Spanish), and then here will be Leon, Mexico for 4 weeks (where I will use that frantically improved Spanish to frantically do a clinical internship through the medical school here).
So first off, just so I get this out of the way, I apologize for any typos, mis-use of punctuation, misspellings, and, what the hell, poor grammar. Surprise, surprise, I am using a Spanish keyboard and, lucky for me, I get to blame it for every mistake I make while typing this blog.
This is my second ever attempt at a travel blog, except this time I am using a new format - a blog blog instead of a travel blog. The travel blog was sort of a blog with training wheels - it helped me figure out titles, provided me with maps, and held my hand in case I decided to upload pictures. Now, although I have no new qualifications to merit this, I have graduated myself. This is partly because, in my dream world, I imagine myself transforming this travel blog into a blog blog. I like to imagine that in the coming years, I will write very witty, insightful things that will change the world (slowly at first, of course, but eventually, they will lead to a massive revolution the result of which will cause world peace, eliminate poverty, and make the skies turn a nice shade of purple). But right now I'm just hoping that I will be able to do things like upload purty pictures and provide you with links to maps of places without any assistance.
Because my attention span hates it when people have really long blog entries, I am going to try and keep them short. Now, those of you that know me (which is probably all of you) know that my definition of short is slightly different than the dictionary definition (in that I see myself as tall and I tend to write incredibly brief emails, and, for the most part, I don´t talk very much). So, in order to conform to other people's standards of short, I sometimes may sporadically cut a story off only to continue it in the next entry. It may be a little confusing because blog entries are listed with the most recent one first, but I think it will be fun, like little chapters of a story. And if you don't like it, well, consider it tough love. Or you could just stop reading.
I will try and proofread.
And with that, time for a new entry.
And now you are reading about me being here.
'Where is here?,' you ask. Here is Gunajuato, Mexico for 2 weeks (to frantically improve my Spanish), and then here will be Leon, Mexico for 4 weeks (where I will use that frantically improved Spanish to frantically do a clinical internship through the medical school here).
So first off, just so I get this out of the way, I apologize for any typos, mis-use of punctuation, misspellings, and, what the hell, poor grammar. Surprise, surprise, I am using a Spanish keyboard and, lucky for me, I get to blame it for every mistake I make while typing this blog.
This is my second ever attempt at a travel blog, except this time I am using a new format - a blog blog instead of a travel blog. The travel blog was sort of a blog with training wheels - it helped me figure out titles, provided me with maps, and held my hand in case I decided to upload pictures. Now, although I have no new qualifications to merit this, I have graduated myself. This is partly because, in my dream world, I imagine myself transforming this travel blog into a blog blog. I like to imagine that in the coming years, I will write very witty, insightful things that will change the world (slowly at first, of course, but eventually, they will lead to a massive revolution the result of which will cause world peace, eliminate poverty, and make the skies turn a nice shade of purple). But right now I'm just hoping that I will be able to do things like upload purty pictures and provide you with links to maps of places without any assistance.
Because my attention span hates it when people have really long blog entries, I am going to try and keep them short. Now, those of you that know me (which is probably all of you) know that my definition of short is slightly different than the dictionary definition (in that I see myself as tall and I tend to write incredibly brief emails, and, for the most part, I don´t talk very much). So, in order to conform to other people's standards of short, I sometimes may sporadically cut a story off only to continue it in the next entry. It may be a little confusing because blog entries are listed with the most recent one first, but I think it will be fun, like little chapters of a story. And if you don't like it, well, consider it tough love. Or you could just stop reading.
I will try and proofread.
And with that, time for a new entry.
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