Monterrey: Part III

It was Thursday evening and I was in Monterrey, Mexico, waiting for my friend Diecinueve to arrive. I wasn't sure what, exactly, we were going to do, but I was famished and a bit stir crazy. Pretty much anything would have been just fine.

Seeing her for the first time was... less weird than I might have guessed. I can't remember the last time that I had seen someone for a few hours and then, 32 months later, had her knock on my hotel room door to pick me up. There's a first time for everything, right?

She had a project that she was working on at school, and when she picked me up I asked her how it went, and she said that she had a horrible day. I thought she meant, like, "My car's tail light went out" or "I lost my Foursquare mayorship to the local coffee shop today" horrible. In fact, she explained that her best friend had a family tragedy and it was much more horrible than I'd anticipated.

In spite of that news, she took me out to get a sandwich. We went to a place that I would not have associated with Monterrey or Mexico, generally. It was called something like "Peace, Love" and it had a modern hippy/crunchy vibe, with several 60's-esque sayings decorating the place... all in English. Kinda weird.

Also kinda weird? The insane gender ratio. I think that I was one of three or four non-employees who were male, and there must have been three or four dozen chicas there. It was bizarre, and I wondered whether those kinds of places existed in Seattle. Because I like those kinds of places, for some reason.

The sandwich was also quite good.

As we sat and I ate (she was not hungry, but she made sure to point out that she would have bought both a sandwich and a salad; big talker!) and I tried not to stare at the forest of femininity around me, we planned the rest of the night.

She was dressed nicely, and I liked her outfit, but she was aghast at the notion that she'd go out in such an ensemble. I wasn't going to argue with her about how she should dress, but it seemed a bit "Mr. Rogers-changing-into-a-sweater" to me. We needed to go back to her place, then, so she could change, and we were going to meet some of her friends at a bar after that.

There was, naturally, an unexpected snag.

She was driving us back to her place, when she informed me that one of her (five? six?) housemates was home. OK. Fine. It seemed that with that many housemates, the odds would be slim that none would be home. She clarified that one roomie, in particular, was there. And this person did not allow men in the house.


Uh... OK.


Culturally influence? Chemically imbalanced? I am not sure, but Diecinueve dropped me back off at my hotel and picked me up later. No big deal. Just one of the oddities of my trip.


The bar we went to was busy. It wasn't crazy-busy, but it was bustling. I liked the atmosphere, in spite of the fact that there were actually some men in the establishment, unlike the sandwich place.

Speaking of dudes, four of Diecinueve's friends were there, and three of them were dudes. I was introduced to her female friend, Rudolfa, and Rudolfa's friend. The other two guys seemed nice enough but I never talked to them nor got their names. We shared a bottle of rum, though, so I feel like we have a bond that only alcohol can form (a different bond than I've made with women in the past due to alcohol, just for the record).

Rudolfa seemed like a very nice person. I sat between her and Diecinueve at our table and she, like Diecinueve, was very cute. She had long dark hair, big brown eyes, nice legs and... something on the end of her nose.

"Something on the end of her nose?" you might ask. "Yes," I would reply. "Like a zit?" "No." "A birthmark?" "No." "A squirrel?" "Not exactly."

She had, like, a scrape. A scab. Something. I didn't know quite what it was, to be honest, in spite of both Rudolfa and Diecinueve trying to explain it to me. Whether it was a language thing or an alcohol thing, I just couldn't grok how she came to have such an abrasion. I kept getting one-sentence explanations from Rudolfa that were amusing but not entirely elucidating. A couple of my favorites:

"It was his birthday." (Pointing to her friend.)
"It's the climate in Monterrey!"
"I woke up last weekend and a squirrel was nibbling on my nose."

OK. I made one of those up.  (Or did I?)

In addition to the pleasant conversation and the rum and the hot Mexican chicks sitting on either side of me, I had one other encounter of note.

Possibly due to the aforementioned rum, I had to use the little boys' room. It was an odd setup, with a sink outside the entrance to both the female and male restrooms. The bathroom itself was a single room without a sink inside... anyway, I went in, locked the door, and did my business.

There was a knock on the door and I could see, through the frosted glass, that someone was waiting to get in. I'm not sure why a knock on a locked bathroom door (when I'd been in there for about 27 seconds) was perceived to be helpful (other than denying me the luxuriant urination session that I usually indulge in), but the reason I'm telling this mini-story is because of what happened when I opened the door.

First: an aside. An aside about expectations. When I go to see a movie, I try to keep expectations low (so I don't have Star Wars Prequels anger). When I talk to someone I don't know, I assume that they are well intentioned simpletons (so I don't get disappointed when they say "irregardless" or use "literally" incorrectly with no self-awareness). When I get out of bed in the morning, I remind myself that a lot is probably going to go wrong (just kidding on that; I don't actually start thinking until about 25 minutes after I get out of bed).

I learned to temper my expectations not through a long spiritual journey or in one of the innumerable post-secondary classes I'm still paying student loans on, but through a post-Nerf basketball session at a friend's house where I took a big swig of iced tea that I thought was apple juice. It tasted like ass--not because it was bad iced tea, but because I was expecting the sweet payoff of apple juice.

Expectations being at odds with reality can lead to disappointing things (like the end of my trip to Monterrey, in my next blog post, or the Obama administration) or to funny things (like the Obama administration).

In THIS case, I opened the door and saw a guy whose eyes were about ten inches lower than mine. He stepped aside so I could get to the sink, and I prepared to descend the step to the sink area.

I prepared to descend that step not because I remember its presence but because I saw a guy whose eyes were ten inches lower than mine and I assumed I was elevated.

Nope. He was just a short dude.

The expectation of that (imaginary) step, helped along, perhaps, by the oft-aforementioned rum, led me to lose my balance and almost sprawl onto the floor. While I'm sure that a common sink area outside of a pair of bathrooms in a Mexican bar has a squeaky-clean floor, I preferred not to end up with a Rudolfa-like nose injury, and I was able to regain my balance, wash my hands, and make it back to the table.

All without laughing at the really short guy that caused me the trouble.

We finished our drinks without further incident. Rudolfa gave me a stuffed chili (like a felt and fabric-stuffed one; not a cheese and goat stuffed one) for some reason upon my return. Diecinueve and I made loose plans regarding Friday and Saturday, and she dropped me back off at my hotel.

The first two days of my trip had gone off well. Not without a hitch, but without a kidnapping and without a major letdown.

That would, unfortunately, change. Next time, you'll learn whether I was kidnapped and beheaded or let down by the rest of my trip. I'm sure the uncertainty is maddening!

Monterrey: Part II

The first thirty hours of my trip to Monterrey, Mexico, were pretty good. Catching up with Patrón, catching up with my sleep, and enjoying the highest pillow:person ratio on my hotel bed were all good things.

At this point, it was Thursday night and I was waiting for Diecinueve to come meet me at the hotel.

I'd met Diecinueve over two and a half years earlier. I'd gone up to Vancouver, BC, with TravelMate 2000 and Flowers and we'd stayed there two nights. The first night we went, TM2000 met a girl and Flowers met a girl, whom I will call Flowers' Friend. I met no girls... or, rather, I met no girls that were particularly interested in meeting me.

Flowers' Friend gave him her number, and so the second night we decided to go to where she (and, allegedly, some female friends) was. It was a dance club, and there was a line. Flowers' friend was in the club and we decided to wait in line (which is a bit atypical of us). So we waited.

And waited.

Eventually we were close to the front, and Flowers' Friend came out to check on us. She brought a friend, and it was... a bit deflating.

What you're about to read exposes me as a bit of an asshole. Not, perhaps, unlike most guys, but... an asshole. My apologies if this is news to you.

OK. Something about Flowers' Friend. She was cute--nice smile, good hair, cute Mexican accent--and she was fit. "Fit" is a good adjective in terms of what women (and, I guess, all people, although I tend to care significantly less about dudes on that front) ought to be. Or, at least, ought to be if they prefer to have me find them physically attractive. (I know that "fit" wasn't part of my CHC scale. I need to think about that one.)

So. Cute. Fit. Good...

Flowers' Friend's friend, who I will call Flowers' Friend's Friend, was not particularly cute. And definitely not fit. In fact (and this is the asshole part) she was more than a bit fat.

Which is OK. I understand that some people are overweight, and I'm sure she was a delightful girl. But I didn't stand in line for 35 minutes to get into a club so I could dance with gordas.

But... we consciously acknowledged the sunk cost effect and decided to stick it out until we got into the club. There was, after all, at least one cute girl who liked Flowers well enough, and we'd already put in the time to get to the front of the line (sunk cost) and ... where else were we gonna go?

So we went in. Paid our way in with the Canadian funny money and approached the dance floor.

Fortunately, Flowers' Friend had more than one friend at the club.

A quick aside about me, at this point: I was wearing a blue blazer over a pretty awesome t-shirt. This t-shirt had a microphone in it and lighted up more as the volume increased. Let me show you, courtesy of a random YouTube video I found:



Silly? Of course? Awesome? Some think so.

Diecinueve was one of those who thought so, which was tremendous news for me.

When we walked onto the dancefloor, we all said hola to Flowers' Friend, and my eyes locked onto Diecinueve and her eyes locked onto my shirt and we ended up hanging out for much of the rest of the night. She was fun and adorable (and fit) and she enjoyed touching my shirt, which distracted her from my intolerable dancing skills.

It was not until later that night, when I learned that Canada had a younger drinking age than the US, that I learned she was ... significantly younger than I'd anticipated. Hence her codename in my blog.

But... who cares, right? Almost everyone is significantly younger than I am, and so we stayed in touch off and on for the next couple of years, and I was about to see her in person for the second time ever when she was meeting me at my hotel on Thursday night.

More on that next time.

Monterrey: Part I

Originally I had planned on going to Monterrey with a buddy to see the Seattle Sounders play. I find soccer a generally boring sport, but I appreciate the impact and popularity it has around the world, so I thought it'd be fun. I also have a couple of friends who live in the Monterrey area, and it's always nice to have people willing to show you around and apologize more fluently when you upset the natives.

Unfortunately, my buddy ended up not going, but I decided to go anyway, and I decided to skip the soccer game... me navigating Monterrey alone to see an event I wasn't particularly enthused about struck me as madness, and I was more excited about the prospect of hotel nap than that.

Soo... I took a redeye Tuesday night through Houston and arrived at the hotel around noon. Here are some thoughts/experiences from the first half of my trip:

The weather was disappointing. Hazy/muggy/unsunny. There are beautiful mountains ringing Monterrey but I couldn't really see much of them because of the clouds. Compared to the massive flooding the city experienced over the summer, though, from Hurricane Alex, I obviously had little to complain about.

Patrón picked me up and we had lunch together. I hadn't seen her in person in about 15 months, and one of the first things she told me was that I look old. I informed her that I am, indeed, oldER but that I was also operating on about three hours of sleep. Always a nice thing to hear from a friend, in any event. :|

Another odd thing? A consistent topic of conversation (or at least comment) that kept cropping up: marriage. She talked about the people she dated in terms of marriage, she pointed out where people get married, she pointed out where SHE wanted to get married, etc. There's nothing at all wrong with this, but I think she might be pretty ready to get hitched sometime soon. Just a guess. :)

We went to a museum and it was pretty cool. It had art on the wall and architectural models in a special exhibit. At one point I leaned in to see one of the models and, although I wasn't touch anything, I guess I got too close, because one of the security guys said something. Of course, lots of people say things, and since I can't understand Spanish very well I ignored him. Patrón had to poke me and tell me that he was telling me to back up. Oops.


Wednesday night was uneventful; Patrón had a class and then had to pack for her trip to Vegas the next day (ironic given the circumstances in which I met her)... we loosely planned on meeting up for dinner later that night, but it didn't work out. There was no proper goodbye with her, but at least I got a good night of sleep.

The next morning I got out of bed around 10:30. I went to the gym in the hotel and lifted a little bit, and then I wandered across the street to a mall to get some food. Inside were all the exotic food options one might expect: Subway, Chili's and McDonald's among them. I guess a mall is a mall, right?

After some deliberation, I remembered that Mexican McDonald's had not, the last time I'd checked, changed their fruit pies from fried to baked. I have no idea how much worse, health-wise, a deep fried apple pie is than a baked one, but I have a strong opinion on how much better they taste. Much better.

So I approached the woman behind the counter.

And it was suddenly weird.

Not McDonald's. That wasn't weird. It was weird.

I was weird.

I've studied Spanish for enough of my life that I should be able to speak it reasonably well. I should be able to say standard things like, "Where is the bathroom?", "I would like a Big Mac and an apple pie, please," and "How old are you, pretty girl?" in Spanish without freezing up.

Normally I don't freeze up. If properly motivated, I can talk to business people, homeless people and beautiful people without too much trouble.

At that McDonald's? I simply couldn't communicate. Couldn't understand what she said. Couldn't say that I wanted a Big Mac. It was an odd feeling and not one I enjoyed very much.

After stumbling over my words in two languages for about 20 seconds, I figured out that McDonald's wasn't open yet so I went over to Chili's and had a breakfast skillet.

Got back, took a nap, hit the gym again, showered again, and waited for Diecinueve, my other friend in Monterrey, to pick me up for dinner.

Monterrey: Prologue

I've been to Mexico before. Over a decade ago--right before I started law school--I spent two weeks with Big Cole and two other high school chums in a fortnight trip that included Puerto Vallarta and Mazatlán. I lost some paperwork and I was in a serious relationship, but it was a good time.

I went to Cancún and Playa del Carmen for my honeymoon. As fun as it is to talk about my marriage on my blog, I'm gonna skip that trip except to say the combo of beaches and Mayan ruins was incredible.

About two years ago I went back to Mexico. TM2000, Flowers and F-Bomb accompanied me to Puerto Vallarta. I was single and I was alcohol-friendly and I had high hopes.

Ugh.

The April 2008 Mexico trip was the biggest bust ever. Two of my three companions were recently involves with girls (one is engaged to the woman; the other is not) and it was Spring Break.

Good? Uh...

HIGH SCHOOL spring break.

It was a disaster.

And so I came back to Mexico for a fourth time. By myself. Hoping for the best but preparing for four days and nights of hotel gym time and HBO Signature.

That's a prologue. I'm at the end of night #2 and tomorrow, when the rum has worn off, I plan/hope to give a recap of my trip so far.

Mixed Signals

A prelude: I haven't written many blogs lately. I don't know if it's because I am content in life, busy in life, or have given up on life, but I haven't felt a compulsion to do so.

I'm writing in a state of rather severe intoxication, which might result in some typographical errors but is almost certain to result in a more transparent communication of the weirdness that help fill in the gaps of my life between sleep and work and porn viewing.

Tonight was a Friday night. I didn't have plans, and the guys I usually hang out with had other plans (F-Bomb presumably was with the future Mrs. F-Bomb and TM2000 was with a group of people that I no long hang with). I got home from work and the gym about 5:30 and played some Civ IV and ate some leftover pizza and took a nap.

The alarm went off at 8:00 PM. I was confused, as I heard the alarm, regarding where I was and why I was being awakened.

It was like my life distilled down to its essence.

Since I had no plans, I turned off my alarm and rolled back over to go to sleep.

No dice.

I decided that I could hang out on my own Friday night. I could put away clothes that had piled up and do laundry that had piled up and do situps to counter the chubby stomach that had piled up... but I decided to wander to Ozzie's.

So I took a shower. I put on a rather subdued outfit that had, as its sole bit of flare, a red patent leather belt that I had bought for my Adam Lambert Halloween costume. As it turns out, no one saw it all night, but (A) it fits better now than it did last October (gym participation ftw!) and (B) I was a bit worried that I was wearing it for the same reason some guys wear womens' underwear.

In any event, Ozzie's was fine. It was an odd night and I was pestered by a Nebraskan Amazon, but .... whatever. The reason I am writing this long prologue is due to what happened after closing.

Let me say this: with the exception of January 2008, when I am within a bar I feel pretty safe. I recognize that I am a terrible fighter and that if it came to a real brawl I'd lose teeth and an eye and maybe a toe or two. Within most bars, I play it cool and trust that security will limit the ridiculousness of the assholes who want to fight.

Outside of bars is often more interesting, unfortunately, than inside them. After closing everyone pours out (eff me... it took four tries to type "pours"... it was "ous" and then "pusaja" and then "pous" before "pours") and people are all more... equal. It's weird. The power dynamic between men and women levels out and anything can happen.

Of course, the downside of this is that ... anything can happen. There is security, but someone can take out a tooth or an eye or a toe or two before anyone can do anything. Also, I've seen American History X.  Curb-stomping is scary shit.

So... I'm hanging outside of Ozzie's after close. The rain is pouring down, and I'm standing beneath overhangs and whatever to try to stay semi-dry.

Somehow I'm surrounded by dudes. Not guys I know, but guys who are willing to talk to women. So I stand there and listen. There's a woman with an umbrella and she talks about how she's not from Washington... she's from California. I'm from California so I pay attention and it almost gets me knocked out.

How is that? Because about 20 minutes later I've moved a half-block away to get away from the dude-bro's and drunk women who want to go home with them and/or punch them in the neck and then act like they shouldn't be punch back because they're chicks.

So. I got some space. I'm txting TM2000. I'm waiting for (ideally) the rain to let up, even though I only have two blocks to walk to my apartment.

Who should stumble by me but the chick who was born in California. She has an umbrella and I'm tired of being wet so we have this conversation:

Me: You're from California?
Her: Yes! I hate the rain!
Me: I'm originally from California, too.
Her: Oh, yeah? Where?
Me: A naval air station in Hanford.
Her: Hanford? Yeah. I know that. I'm from Oakhurst.
Me: Really?
Her: Yes. You've heard of it?
Me: Totally. My grandmother and aunt lived there when I was young; I visited there a few times.
Her: Really? Cool. You wanna get under my umbrella with me?
Me: Uh, sure. But I'm sure that your boyfriend would not approve. [Note: I didn't know she had a boyfriend. It was a test.]
Her: He's over there. He's cool. It'll be fine.
Me: OK. Uh. I guess.

At that point I got under her umbrella with her. It wasn't a small umbrella.  There was no touching. I was just slightly less drenched due to her kindness.

Of course, no good deed goes unpunished. She and I were talking about her hometown when suddenly a guy cruised up.

He was short and he was very pale/redhead and he had a VERY short haircut.

He was also this chick's boyfriend.

We had this conversation. It was awesome.

Him: Dude. I'm gonna knock you out.
Her: Haha. He's kidding.
Me: What?
Him: If you don't leave right now, I will drop you.
Me: What?
Her: He's kidding.
Me: Is this your boyfriend?
Her: Yes. He's cool.
Him: I'm not fucking around. I will punch you in the fucking face.
Me: (Backing up.) Dude. It's cool.
Her: Haha! He's funny.
Me: Are you kidding?
Him: No. I will knock you out.
Me: (Backing up.) OK. It's cool.
Her: (Advancing, grabbing my forearm.) He's TOTALLY kidding. Isn't he funny?
Me: ...
Him: Seriously. Leave.
Me: I'm waiting for a friend. (A lie.)
Her: (To me)  He's just joking. Don't worry.
Him: I'm not joking.
Me: OK. Byebye.
Her: No! He's kidding!
Him: No I'm not.

It was bizarre. I don't see how they could have legitimately been on such different wavelengths, but I don't understand why she would keep pursuing me as he's threatening to pummel me.

Yes, he was shorter than I was.

Yes, I am not a gelatinous tub of goo.

But I don't know how to fight and I am the first person to admit it. There's no way I was about to stand my ground and call him and his girlfriend out as being totally ridiculous.

So I stepped out from under the cover and into the rain. I waited for them to stagger off and I set off for home.

It was an odd night. But I have all my toes/eyes/teeth, so I consider it to be a success.

For my birthday? An ulcer!

Of the strengths I have, one is standardized test taking. I kinda joke about this fact occasionally, but one reason I believe that I do well is because I remain cool under fire. I don't get anxious about stuff very easily... whether it's because I can manage stress well or just have a general indifference is a fair question.

For some reason, though, I get stressed out around my birthday.  Which is funny, not just because I rarely get stressed out, but because I sort of (at least internally) mock those who get more emotional around certain times: the holidays, weddings, menstrual cycles.

It's absolutely emerged in my consciousness, however, that I get more stressed out around my birthday than I should.

Two years ago I was supposed to meet people at Ozzie's for a semi-party and the night had a stressful pre-semi-party set of circumstances that led to me going home early and pissing off at least one friend who was kind enough to come with the intention of hanging out with me.

Last year was more serene, I think, but this year I had another little hiccup that threw me off and almost resulted in me hang out alone on my birthday evening. Which would not have been the end of the world, perhaps (although perhaps it would have been; fortunately we'll never know) but it would have been a bit of a waste, too.

Thinking about why I get stressed makes me more stressed, and I think I'm going to leave that as an off-blog topic of self-examination/recrimination. Instead, I will live you with this image: