Wednesday, February 28, 2007

A drop in the desert

This is Kevin Nahum, 5 years old and from El Salvador, who I met today at Casa del Migrante in Tapachula. Kevin's parents have been forced to leave their country because of threats against his father, an accountant. They are only two days into their journey. They eventually want to reach San Francisco, where a relative lives. They don't know how they'll get there, only that they cannot go back.

"When we need to walk, we will walk," Kevin's mother Caroline told me.

The casa is run by Father Flor Maria Rigoni, an Italian priest who speaks six languages, entered the seminary at the age of 11, has lived in Mexico for 22 years and recently was named by Mexico's president the Man of the Year for the Defense of Human Rights. Rigoni has a long white beard and a long white robe, and he walks barefoot around the grounds of his casa.

"We are speaking of millions of people," he says of those who pass through Mexico to reach the United States. "And behind every person, there's a family, there's an identity, there's a tradition."

Rigoni has worked in Tapachula for nine years, helping thousands, but he knows he cannot help them all. "We are really a drop," he says. "But nevertheless, a drop stops the desert from gaining an inch."

When I left the casa tonight, I said goodbye to Kevin Nahum and his family. I wished them luck, thanked them for their time and gave them my phone number. They said they would call when they reach California. I will be waiting.

Ta-ta, TSA

Sitting in the Mexico City airport tonight, waiting for my flight to be called, it was announced that the flight to Tapachula was leaving from Gate T, at the end of the terminal. As I soon discovered, Gate T is not actually a gate but a bus stop.

We were told to go outside and board bus 86, which would take us to our plane. We got on the bus -- no tickets needed -- and in a few minutes an airport employee ducked his head into the cabin and asked, "Tapachula?" The passengers yelled back, "Si!"

The bus soon backed out of the station and appeared to leave the airport. We drove for about 10 minutes and I thought maybe they just decided to bus us to Tapachula. It's only a 20-hour ride. But at last we came to an area with some actual planes. We deboarded the bus, walked across the tarmac and climbed into one of them.

Again, I expected some kind of ID or ticket check. Instead, they gave us mints. After we landed in Tapachula, I took this photo of the plane. When I tried to take a tighter shot, to provide a full view of the playful smile painted on the nose of the jet, a man with a gun told me not to. I thought it best to obey.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

That which doesn't kill you...


Before I left, I was told that travelers who get sick tend to do so at the end of long trips, when their defenses are down and they are less vigilant about what they eat.

For me, that moment came on Day 2. For lunch today, I stopped at a crowded restaurant in Zona Rosa and ordered the enchiladas (again) and iced tea. I wasn’t worried about the water used to make the tea – a restaurant that plays Oasis's "Wonderwall" during the lunch hour would certainly use pure water. But it wasn’t until I had drunk half the glass that I realized something else: It was filled with ice.

I drank the rest of it anyway, and crunched the ice in my mouth for good measure. Make my day, parasites! I love ice in my drinks – the more, the better, and I don’t think I can survive five weeks without it. It’s been about 10 hours since lunch, and I still feel fine. Perhaps my immune system is tougher than I think.

After receiving some chastising about my choice of cuisine on my first night here (Subway, Italian BMT), I went to an Argentinian restaurant tonight, Quebracho, with Jim, another guest at the hotel. In response to his question about the thickness of the various ribeyes, the waiter returned with a slab of raw, gorgeous meat.

I had a tender strip steak, and it was delicious.

Tomorrow I head to Tapachula, near Mexico’s southern border with Guatemala, for reporting on various labor and migration issues. I’m sorry to leave Mexico City so soon. It’s not that I haven’t scratched the surface here; I haven’t even seen the surface. But there will be time for that in a couple weeks.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Bienvenidos a Mexico!


(This was written last night.)

First, the good news: Bottles of Pacifico at the 24-hour convenience store a half-block from my hotel cost 75 cents. I loaded up tonight and figured I would share them with other hotel guests as we watched the Oscars at the Internet café just off the courtyard. (The rooms at Casa Gonzalez don’t have TVs or, for that matter, hot water. But the beauty of the hotel – actually a series of small buildings surrounding a central courtyard – and the graciousness of the staff easily make up for any shortcomings.)

Now, the less-good news: The Oscars cannot be found on the TV in the café here. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s time to cut all cords to America.

I arrived in Mexico City at 11 this morning, narrowly escaping a “wintry mix” that has apparently wreaked havoc and panic in the Baltimore-Washington area. I quickly cleared immigration, picked up my bag and grabbed a taxi. “Soy periodista,” I told the driver when he asked what I do. “Newsweek?” he replied.

Exploring the Zona Rosa neighborhood around my hotel, I came across more Starbucks than can be found in all of Baltimore. Tempted though I was, I resisted the call of a caramel frappucino and headed for a slightly more authentic option: VIPS, which seems like the Applebee’s of Mexico, only with free Wifi. Yay! I had the enchiladas, which were delicious, and bottled water.

I’m enjoying practicing my Spanish probably more than people here enjoy hearing it. After explaining to a Telcel salesman how I needed to buy minutes for the Mexican cell phone I brought with me, he said, “Do you want to speak in English?” Well, no, but I’d probably still be there if he hadn’t asked.

Otherwise, I found a bookstore that was playing Death Cab for Cutie and a music store, Mixup, that in addition to the usual music categories of rock, jazz and so on had the aptly-named Trash, where they kept the Slayer and Lamb of God. Later, I wandered down the Ave. Paseo de la Reforma (photo above), walked through a public park, sat under a tree and read Ian McEwan, watched some children play soccer and finally settled for dinner at Subway, the highlight of which was watching a French family and the Mexican employee speak to each other in English. “Cheese, please.”

Tomorrow, the work begins.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Once more down the 101

I'm a sucker for finales.

I still remember the last words on Cheers: "Sorry, we're closed." I loved the final moments of Family Ties, when the camera pulled back, breaking the fourth wall of television sitcoms, and the cast came out for a last bow. I watched the Seinfeld finale with hundreds of other people at my college student center, then rushed upstairs to write about it for the school paper. I sat on the edge of my couch and trembled at the last minutes of Six Feet Under. And the ending of The Wonder Years ("After all these years, I still look back with wonder") captured the heart and wisdom of the show in perfect measure.

Naturally, then, I had high expectations for last night's series finale of The O.C., a show that burst into popular culture in 2003 with a first season that was nearly flawless. The premise was original, the writing sharp, the setting gorgeous and the emotions heartfelt. It was clever and funny and surprising. The popular school jock Luke (who delivered the show's trademark line) turned out to have a tender side. The ditzy Valley girl Summer fell for a comic-book loving, Shins-listening dork (as did the rest of America).

And it didn't hurt that so many episodes ended with hilarious fistfights.

But not a punch was thrown last night. No one got drunk and passed out in an alley. Not a single model home was set on fire or coffee stand mounted in impromptu declaration of love. Instead, we got a house-hunting expedition, two weddings, a childbirth and an undercurrent of homophobia. A gay couple in Berkeley decide to sell their house to Sandy and Kirsten Cohen, who have just had a baby and are therefore so much more of a real "family" than the gay couple could ever be. Even better: One of the men is a wedding planner, the other a midwife. I'm sorry, but I thought Will & Grace had been canceled.

The show had its moments, scarce as they were. The scene where Frank bursts into the church and yells "JULIE!" was a clever nod to The Graduate. And Ryan's final tour of the Cohens' O.C. house, in which he flashes back to his arrival there and reluctant transition to Newport, was touching almost in spite of itself. But the flash-forward that assures us everyone lives happily ever after was trite and insulting for a show that once expected its audience to know who Michael Chabon is.

My friends and I sang the theme song again last night, but when it was over Abby delivered the unfortunate but inescapable verdict: "Worst. Finale. Ever."

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

'Col. Mustard, in the library, with a Metrobus'


Trivia night found the IRP crew rocking out the Colonial Africa category (match the European occupier with the correct African nation: fun!) but slipping out of medal contention when it came to sports. What male tennis player won the U.S. Open in both 1990 and 2002? I can now assure you it was not Andre Agassi.

It’s still a little unreal to think that at this time next week I’ll be in a small city near the Mexico-Guatemala border, beginning a five-week journey for which I still feel wildly unprepared. But I don’t know if you ever can feel prepared for this; there is always more to do, no matter how many lists you draw up and how many items you cross off.

As Chris said about how these things happen, “One day, you force yourself to get off your ass and fill out an application, and then you just go along.”

Washington has been fantastic, the perfect place to indulge my habit of book-spying. Whenever I see someone reading a book in a public place – on the Metro, in a coffee shop, in a movie theater before the film begins – I feel a burning curiosity to know what they’re reading.

The opportunities for practice are numerous, but the town is a little lacking in variety. Two sightings yesterday: A college-aged guy on the Metro green line reading What a Party!, Terry McAuliffe’s account of his years running the Democratic Party. And a middle-aged woman in Potbelly reading Rumsfeld: His Rise, Fall, and Catastrophic Legacy. Clearly, a non-fiction town.

Voxtrot line of the day: “Baby, I’d leave you for the person you used to be.” Sing it, Ramesh.

Monday, February 19, 2007

A weekend in the city


If you’re going to Mexico, the CDC wants a word with you. You need vaccinations. You need prescriptions. Sunblock, bed nets, iodine tablets, anti-diarrheal medication and laxatives are all recommended. Sufficiently terrified, I went to Baltimore this weekend to see my doctor and get everything I would need not to die.

The CDC suggests the following vaccines, in addition to anti-malarial drugs and prescription antibiotics:
-Hepatitis A
-Hepatitis B
-Rabies
-Typhoid
-Yellow fever

As I read the list to my doctor, he started taking notes, then he started laughing.

“You know, plenty of people go to Mexico without doing any of this,” he told me, “and they’re fine.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, “but the CDC…”

In the end, I walked out with only a prescription for Cipro, and not the anti-malarial pills you’re supposed to start taking one week before you leave. “If you get malaria,” the doctor said, “we’ll deal with it when you get back.”

I tried to explain my high susceptibility to illness, how I can catch a cold from an oscillating fan. He wasn’t buying. But, when I get to those fantastic pharmacies south of the border, you can bet I will be.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

A snow day for Washington

Today, as the city slumbers under an icy blanket of white, I'm creating a blog to chronicle my upcoming trip to Mexico for the vast array of people who want to keep up with me. (That would be you, Mom. Thanks for reading!) I leave Feb. 25, fly into la Ciudad de Mexico and then travel all over the freakin' place, until I run out of money, which will hopefully coincide with my return flight on March 31.

(And now, a word from our sponsor: The trip is made possible by the lovely folks at the International Reporting Project at Johns Hopkins University, and I will be writing stories for the Baltimore Sun, or whoever else I can con into buying stories about Mexico.)

So far, my preparations have consisted of calling random hotel desk clerks and practicing my Spanish. "Hola! Necesito reservacionces, por favor. ... Um, hablas ingles?" I will be reporting on the serious issues of immigration, labor exploitation and drug violence. The fact that Modest Mouse will be playing in Mexico City during my trip had no bearing whatsoever on my choice of destination for this project.

I intend to post here as often as possible, whenever I encounter the sweet nectar that is WiFi, and until my laptop is stolen.

For now, Feliz Dia de los Enamorados! I am off to a Hugh Grant movie.