Hola, chicos y chicas, y saludos de la Ciudad de México, D.F.!

Despite the craziness of life in Mexico City, I'm quite settled into the day-to-day... Every (Mon-Fri)day, my alarm goes off around 6, and at about 7 I finally roll out of bed into my work clothes, minus the high heels I carry in my purse. In my walking shoes, I brave the cracked and cratered sidewalks and run past the cars (mostly green and white Volkswagen Bug street cabs) that don't seem to share the "common" knowledge that pedestrians maintain the right of way. I'm proud to announce I have yet to be hit. Yet being a very operative word.

If I'm feeling particularly lazy, or late, I hail a pesero (micro-bus). These are sort of collective taxis, slightly larger than a mini-van, privately owned and with no set stops or schedules. Their ridership often slightly over capacity according to Canadian road & safety regulations, what with passengers hanging out of doors and crammed in horizontally and having to push past 20 or so people with elbows and knees and umbrellas to get off at their stop. Although Felix Cuevas is a one-way (west-bound) street, city-owned buses are allowed to use the south lane to go east. In the anarchic style typical of this country, the westerly drivers see no conflict in also using this south lane, despite the traffic coming directly at them from the opposite direction. Honking your horn as frequently and loudly as possible is viewed as a sensical solution to any problem/annoyance/whim encountered by drivers on the road. This makes for some interesting (in the way that being nearly hit by a large bus when you are captive in a micro-bus is interesting) situations during an average morning commute. Depending on traffic, my hiking boots are debatably faster and safer than the micro-buses, and definitely more comfortable.

At Mixcoac Station, I usually wait in the "Women and Children Only" section, where the male population is generally slightly less than 50%. Gives me reason to wonder about the effectiveness of voluntary compliance measures. Frequently, a man/teenager (or, less frequently, a woman) will enter the subway car and start repeatedly shouting an over-rehearsed spiel over the already substantial existing noise. For example (loosely translated): "20 great works of Classical Music here. Beethoven, Bach, Vivaldi, (more names)...Only 10 pesos. (Pause to see if there are any takers.) 20 great works of Classical Music here..." It's sort of impressive the way they can get their voices to repeatedly emit such high volumes, and eerily reminds me of the Shakespeare soliloquies Mrs. Diamond used to make us present in 12th grade English class while also doing something else, like bouncing a ball or disrobing. Needless to say, the acting suffers.

As I exit at M(etro) Auditorio, I pass the Auditorio Nacional, which is right next to President Fox's house. Consequently, I usually have to wade through a sea of police and military uniforms, as well as their accompanying vehicles, which clutter my way along La Pasea Reforma. I gave up on the Reforma peseros, worse than those on Felix Cuevas, as soon as I learned how to walk the route. It isn't uncommon for me (dressed in conservative work attire and sexy hiking shoes) to receive (presumably) lewd comments, whistles, too-loudly-cleared-throats or, least offensively, a polite greeting from any of a number of men I pass, including those in the aforementioned uniforms and respectable-looking ones in business suits.

When I arrive at the office, I am greeted by the doorman, who stands behind a thick wooden door with various locks and alarms and security cameras. (I discovered the other night, when I tried to leave the office late and the doorman was in the washroom, that the impossible-to-open door supposed to keep the "bad people" out can easily cage the "good" people in, instead.) I kiss past the co-workers who all know my name (I'm still working on many of theirs) on my way to my department's office (where I do know the 6 names), trying not to screw up my attempts at Spanish small talk. I then install myself at my desk, where I usually sit behind my computer for most of the day.

These days, I've been working on preparations for the Regional Meeting of GEO for Youth in Latin America, happening October 27th to 31st. Participants have already started arriving, and I'm going to be staying with them at the hotel as of tomorrow night. In addition to all the workshops and editorial conferences for the Capacity Building Guidebook taking place in Desierto de los Leones National Park (how much cooler than a downtown hotel boardroom is that?!?), we are going to be doing lots of fun stuff like a Day of the Dead dinner and a boat outing in Xochimilco. It's hard to believe that soon all this logistical work will materialize into an amazing (I hope!) international meeting that should result in some wonderful environmental educational initiatives taking place all over the region of Latin America and the Caribbean. I'm a bit nervous at the amount of responsibility being given to me, especially in that one of my duties will be to assist the (English-speaking) Caribbean representatives in understanding all that's going on in Spanish, but I'm also really excited.

In other news, things are going well outside of work. However, no time for details... I'm at the office on a Saturday and my new roommate Maria [pictured above] is here waiting for me and I have just been released by Luis, I'll sign off for now!

Mucho amor y besos,
Cara

Maria, my roommate from Spain (at least while she gives the place a 2-week trial like I did) arrived last night. She's here to do an internship at UNIFEM, has a journalism background, and seems totally great. This morning, after I stepped shoe-deep into unmarked wet concrete near our house, we walked aroud the Bosque de Chapultapec and at mushroom-cheese quesadillas at a stall together before we parted ways: her to see "El Angel" (the Revolution statue) and I, well, to the office to meet Luis to get together the last-minute meeting details. She's meeting me here around 5pm, when I should hopefully be done. (I'd better be...)

As I was walking alone on Paseo de Reforma just now, sun beating down all shiny-like and people around me emitting good energy, one of the peseros slowed down. I mouthed "No gracias" as I was only 5-10 minute walk to where the peseros verge away from where I was going. But about 15 metres ahead, even though it was full of passengers, the bus stopped dead, theoretically to merge lanes, but missing many opportunities to do so. When I sauntered past again, the pesero driver invited me in, somehow insisting and imparting well-intentionedness with his body language, and I had to accept. I guess my weekend attire (simple black tank-top revealing only my arms and my big purple skirt) earned me more than more honks and whistles than usual! It was really sweet. He refused my pesos and just kept smiling at me as I sat up front for the 3-minute ride to the Petroleum statue, obviously desiring/expecting nothing more of me than my brief presence in his bus. It made me feel radiant.

I've had a happy enough morning to try my best not to harp on the fact that I've been forced to come to work on a splendid Saturday, instead of being at the festival in Guanajuato (where I'd hoped to go this weekend) or out exploring the town with Maria or...

I'm moving into Hotel Corinto tomorrow night so I can be around for the participants if they need me. Should be fun, but I anticipate being pretty excited to return home at the end of the week!

Two days until the participants arrive for the Regional Meeting of GEO for Youth in Latin America and the Caribbean.

They're coming from:
Argentina
Barbados
Brasil
Colombia
Cuba
Guatemala
México- Veracruz
México- DF
Nicaragua
Panamá
Perú
República Dominicana
Salvador
St. Lucia
Uruguay

To steal from official documents, for lack of time:

The objective of the Regional Meeting of GEO for Youth in Latin America and the Caribbean is to discuss the new GEO for Youth in Latin America and the Caribbean Capacity Building Guidebook, which will comprise part of the education and capacity building component of GEO for Youth. At the same time, participants will design a strategy for the future of the project in Latin America and the Caribbean and will have the opportunity to share their respective experiences with conducting activities and advancing the project in their own countries.

The meeting will take place from the 27th to the 31st of October in the Ex - Monasterio del Parque Nacional Desierto de los Leones (translation: Ex-Monestary of Desert of the Lions National Park) in the Delegación Política de Cuajimalpa de Morelos (Political Delegation of Cuajimalpa of Morelos) in Mexico City [pictured above]. This area has been identified as the most important green space in the city.

I can't believe I'm actually helping to organize this! I'm very excited and only slightly freaked out...

There's much more I could be sharing from the past week, but must get back to translating and preparing for the English-speaking minority of participants, for whose comfort and comprehension I will be completely responsible. I think this is one of those situations for which the expression "sink or swim" was created.

Hopefully I can write soon of how successful the meeting was and fill in other gaps in what's been happening :)

Thanks to everyone who e-mailed with suggestions on the Spanish birthday song! However, I checked with Teresa here at PNUMA, and the version sung here is called "Las Mañanitas" and goes a little something like this:

Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el Rey David
Hoy por ser día de tú santo te las cantamos a tí
Despieta mi bien despierta mira que ya amanecío
Ya los pajaritos cantan la luna ya se metío

El dia en que tu naciste
Nacieron todas las flores
en la pila del bautismo
cantaron los ruiseñores

Ya viene amaneciendo
ya la luz del día nos dio
despiertate de mañana
mira que ya amaneció

Volaron cuatro palomas
por toditas las ciudades
en este dia de tu santo
te deseamos felicidades.

Below are two English translations stolen from http://www.lucerito.net/mananitas.htm which probably don't totally correspond to Tere's version above, but I don't have time to try to translate!

The Mañanitas (poetic translation)

These are the lovely mañanitas that were sung by Rey David. Today we sing them to a loved one who happy will be. Wake up this early morning and the sun you will see. As the moon leaves us this morining all the birds they will sing. How beautiful is the morning that I come to share with you. We all come in celebration of this special day just for you. The day it is a dawning and the light of day has come. Awaken early this morning to see all that we have done.

The Little Mornings (Literal translation)

These are the little mornings that sang the King David, today for being day of your saint we sing them to you. Wake up my love wake up look that sunrise has come, already the litttle birds sing the moon already has set. How pretty is the morning that I come on to greet you. We come all with gladness and pleasure to congratulate you. Already comes the sunrise already the light of day has touched us. Get up of morning look that sunrise has come.

I hope this earns me a bit more credit from those who sent me songs quite similar to direct translations of "Happy Birthday to You"!

P.S. There's an animated version at http://www.musicalspanish.com/flashdemo3.htm if anyone wants to hear it!

[okay, so the pic is a sunset, not a sunrise, but it's pretty, no? taken from the island of janitzio]

Birthdays a la oficina are quite the fiesta.

First, resounding from the speakers integral to all telephones in the building, comes the Big Sister-esque voice announcing the lucky birthday person's name and luring all interested workers to some central location with the promise of cake (or something like it). Next, the flocks assemble, greeting one another with kisses and small talk. Because it can take some time to embrace and chat up every single co-worker who likes cake, coffee or not sitting at their workstation while others are off eating cake or drinking coffee, not to mention the lack of promptness characteristic of the Latin American region, the lapse from loudspeaker invitation to actual cake consumption can easily span 45 minutes of should-be-working-now time.

Between greeting and eating comes a ceremony in which all attendees (except me and the one or two other bewildered-looking expats in the crowd) cheerily sing the Spanish birthday song, which is somewhat more complicated than our primitive English "Happy Birthday to You," where the insertion of first name at the third of four repetitions is the sole variation. By contrast, their version has more than 6 words, as well as a tune that isn't one of the first melodies I learned to play on the piano, which makes it hard to pick it up when I barely speak the language! (If anyone knows the words and feels like forwarding them to me, it'd be much appreciated!)

Mexicans sure like to celebrate (stretch out?!?) their holidays. For instance, today's cake (in honour of Fifi's special day) came in the form of Pan de Muerto. After all, at mid-October, we are "only" a mere 16 days away from el Dia de los Muertes, somewhat analogous to Halloween. Apparently this sweet, rich bread, replete with little icing sugar skulls, is a Day of the Dead staple. To me, it tastes like a cross between sugar-covered Timbit (possibly of the sour cream variety) and croissant.

Esther, a white candy skull with a pink drizzle on her would-be scalp (wannabe hair?), green sticker eyes and a red paper name-tag, is currently resting in peace on top of my cubicle wall. She seems happy there.


[Photo: Eating my first tamale, surrounded by Day of the Dead candy (like Esther).]

Surreal morning scene, not a dream. +/- 100 darkly uniform(ed) men trying to hold on but spilling out of the many exits of a sole big, black, fully packed school-type bus between the Auditorio National and Campo Marte. Squad cars lining the street, cops standing around. One says “buenos dias” in an inexplicably insinuating way and I squirm past, then reconsider and return to hesitantly ask, “Que pasa allá?” Curiosity can’t kill at 8:25am, can it?

The cops act out smoking a joint and injecting heroin to supplement their too-fast Spanish quasi-explanation in which I catch the words “marijuana” and something simlar to "intérlope"; it doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t think it’s just the language barrier. So this is the face of the War on Drugs, Mexican style?

Images reminiscent of some science fiction story deep in my subconscious stick in my head as I head up Reforma. If only I’d brought my camera today! The folks at Lonely Planet sure missed this attraction…

[photo pictured here is of a similar bus, same place, different day, minus the setting described above. use your imagination.]

It was supposed to stop raining here by the middle of last month. The one advantage of my visa delay was that it was virtually guaranteed I would miss the rainy season altogether. In theory.

Surprise, surprise… the skies forgot to close shop over the Districto Federal and, wow, is it ever coming down out there. Innocent people who left the office dry an hour ago are coming in from lunch totally drenched.

Welcome to climate change, folks! Goodbye to good, ol’ predictable weather, as we once knew it.

Talk about experiential learning; I am getting a real, live introduction to the effects of so-called "global warming" in the same office as people are trying to provide early warning and assessment of such phenomena. Let me tell you, it’s real, and it’s happening right here, right now…

My two umbrellas, brought just for days like today, are hanging on the back of my door in my bedroom. My MEC rain jacket is safe in my closet. All very useful.

I am mentally preparing for a very wet journey home.

Mexico City is known for its acid rain. Yummy! “Oh, if all of the rain drops were sugar drops and gum drops…”

Met Artie at the entrance of the Museo de Anthropologia near the big stone statue, as planned. Except that the entrance and the statue are about a 3 minute walk apart... So it took about an hour for us to actually find one another. Good times people-watching, though.

While going back and forth from the Museo to the statue bearing its name, I passed a girl playing cello near the vendors. We made eye contact and I had a feeling there would be more to the story...

Artie and I walked around the vicinity of the zoo for about 2 hours, talking to vendors and trying to find the entrance. I voiced my suspicion that the zoo in the Bosque Chapultapec was really just a myth told to unsuspecting tourists, whose diverted business as they wander lost and confused benefits the hundreds of vendors in the park.

We finally got into the zoo about half an hour before closing. 3 sad looking elephants. Same with the bison. Many things not quite according to the educational labels, like an ostrich in the kangaroo spot.

At the antelope place, this girl named Ady, a Mexican with white skin and red hair and freckles (quite rare down here), started talking to us and immediately asked if we would be her friends and showed us pictures of her family she was carrying in her purse and told us that lots of people get kidnapped here and gave us her e-mail address. I kept my eye on our pockets and belongings the whole time, but in the end I think she was only a nice (if a bit weird, or possibly just really lonely) girl trying to reach out to the foreigners...

Although certain aspects of getting to see all the exotic animals is admittedly kinda neat, in another light the zoo just seems cruel. The MacDonalds as the only eating option inside was disappointing, too, what with all the awesome taco stands just outside (with veggier, albeit probably slightly less sanitary, options). But hey, entrance was free, I got to walk around and I had good chats with someone else having some adjustment issues with Latin culture and the UNEP office environment (btw, Artie is from Trinidad). So, overall good day.

Best part... As I was walking down La Pasea Reforma on my way back to Auditorio Station, I found myself walking beside the cellist and her mother. We started talking, in Spanish, and two lovely things happened: 1) I actually understood her & 2) we got along really well. We all took the metro southbound together and exchanged email & phone info. New friend #2 of the week. Yay!

P.S. Yes, Mom, Kim (this week´s new friend #1) and I hit it off, just as you suspected, and even though I am not encouraging you to conspire with any more strangers you meet at weddings to find me contacts down here, I owe you a thank you...

In Mexico, a limon (lemon) is green and small and potent.

In other words, their lemon is our (Canadian/U.S.) lime.

They apparently have something they call a lime (lima) that is yellow like our lemon. However, it is sweet.

A bit confusing.

[When I saw the limas being sold at the harbour of Lake Pátzcuaro, I just had to buy one and see what all the self-perpetuated hype was about. In the end, it didn't taste very good... Oh well, at least I got a picture!]

Last night, homeward bound for the first time after dark, alone.

Not since high school (walking to volunteer at the Community Association for Riding for the Disabled through G. Ross Lord Park in the pitch black, amongst the shadows of trees haunting the empty road, right after that girl was raped there) have I felt so scared simply trying to get from point A to point B. Including all those times I stood at the side of Canadian highways, thumb erect, waiting for the next obliging driver to pull up…

By myself. On foot. Heading home. This should be a solitary, pensive, relaxing experience. Should be.

How silly that leaving the office late should be frightening endeavour. And yet, as soon as Patricia from administration dropped me off at Auditorio Metro Station, I was on guard. Purse clutched to my side, pace artificially quick, furtive glances about to assess my surroundings… When I felt my gaze soften, leaning towards the faces of underground strangers who might offer up a smile or nod, I straightened up, stiffened my body and mind against their inclination towards connection. I would look at nobody, hard.

“Hiding” up the crowded escalator (with no “stand right; walk left” option), pressed between two older women, I tried to remember which way to exit Mixcoac. “Salida” signs everywhere, but no way to tell where they lead. I took one, at random. Emerging on the west side, into the busy alleys of Taco and Hot Dog and Kola Loca (Crazy Glue) vendors, I mistook _____ (?) for Felix Cuevas and started walking south instead of east. Squeezing between the greasy snack stands and their proprietors, at times forced off the curb into the street (where cars practically aim for people), every passer-by (man) who looked my way was a potential attacker; every potential friend, a gamble not worth taking. The risk of a casual “Hola!” or “Sabes que hora es?” or “Donde es Insurgentes?” would be high, immediately identifying me, this light-skinned trying-not-to-look-lost little woman as a definite foreigner, as if I wasn't already sticking out enough. C’mon, stay grounded, I told myself.

By the time I got my bearings, heading at right angles away from the huge “Voila Quebec” billboard with a young girl’s luminescent face blighted by a blue “fleur-de-lis” black eye (I don’t quite get what the Quebec tourism board had in mind with this campaign), my heart was fluttering. I started to jog-walk down the sidewalk, taking refuge in the energy of fellow woman pedestrians. After a few blocks, though, the lights got dimmer, the people fewer, and Mr. Farca Luna’s advice more salient: should I find myself alone and lost, always head towards la luz & la gente, and call someone to get me. “Um, hi, I’m all the way across town from where you are, 10 minutes from my house, and feeling a little uneasy…” Yeah, right. Must keep trekking.


Despite my sensitivity to the issues surrounding corporate globalisation, the Liverpool Department Store was a welcomed landmark, symbolising my return to familiar territory. And it is begrudgingly that I must admit to the beacon-like appearance of the Wal-Mart sign, glowing bright yellow in the distance on this dark night. It allowed me to relax a little, knowing I was almost home.

There’s no good way to explain that gut instinct, the one insisting you look around every corner before forging on, telling you to avoid the limbs emerging from unlit doorways and to move fast. I can’t rationalize last night’s sense of urgency, which now seems totally baseless. True, there are hazards associated with life in this seething metropolis, informed by reality rather than paranoia, and this will remain a constant. I know that if my fear dissipates over the next several months, it will be at least partly due to the soothing lull of that proverbial false sense of security.

Yes, I probably would have gotten home without incident last night, no matter what I’d done. Even if I’d strolled along slowly, talking to strangers in broken Spanish and dangling my purse. But maybe I wouldn’t have. A part of me resents all the people who have inspired this fear in me, constantly imploring me to be careful and telling me, over and over, about all the dangerous aspects of this city. And yet I know that they are right, statistically, theoretically, and practially. I will keep trusting my intuition, even though I sometimes wish it would just shut up.

Anyways, I guess if there has to be a moral to this story it's that I made it home, safe and sound. I expect this experience will probably repeat itself a few dozen times. Je suppose que c'est la vida.

i have a response
but no time to write
so much i could say
but no way to give it
voice calls so loud
from the pavement below
dirty men sell cleanliness
bottled in bibles and show
me the way from these
teeming streets seeming
so hopelessly lively
everywhere life is pain
highness will come
alive or dead
they want you
there (where?)
they can see you
don't know
anything
more than this
is all
you know

I went to with Tere to Frida Kahlo's "blue house" where she grew up and painted and ate and lived!! How cool is that?

It was really neat to get to wander around and see stuff like her beds, one of which has a the mirror on the "roof" so she could see/paint herself while lying down...

There were cats all over the garden, which was the only place they let me take pictures... They even made me leave my camera with Sara & her friends, who were waiting outside, when I went inside the house/museum.

[If you look real close, though, you can take a peak inside!]

"You must be the change you wish to see in the world"--Mahatma Gandhi

I am trying to be a socially-conscious environmentalist in one of the biggest and most polluted cosmopolitan centres in the world.

A sneak preview of the yet unpublished GEO Youth LAC Guidebook I'm reviewing:

"The growth of economic activity and increasing population density have led to severe air pollution in many cities, with Mexico City, Sao Paulo and Bogota among the worst affected. The primary sources of such pollution... are mainly urban transportation and industry. The releases include a wide range of pollutants, including greenhouse gases and compounds that form urban smog. The latter have a major impact on human health causing sever respiratory problems, higher rates of lung infections and many premature deaths. The illnesses caused by air pollution are costly both in human and economic terms. Treatment is expensive and employee absenteeism reduces productivity."

And, yes, most employees here at UNEP do get around solely by automobile (car or taxi). And, so far, so have I.

In their defense (and mine), there are not many safe, environmentally sound transportation options available in Mexico City. The city is huge and many people live far from Metro stations. Besides, taking public transit here can be very dangerous. Most people can tell at least one story of someone they know's being attacked in the street here, day and night. In fact, street cabs are also notorious violent crime sites. So it's understandable that the personal vehicle becomes a very attractive option for those who don't want to be kidnapped and raped on the way to work, as apparently happened to a woman taking a taxi to the office from Condesa about a year ago. In fact, someone I met the other day, in trying to convince me how it's not so unsafe here, explained that after 7 years in D.F. she'd only been mugged once; this while waiting in traffic, smoking a cigarette in her own car, by an unarmed man with whom she struggled and lost. I don't know if it will make me more crazy trying not to think about the (in)security of life here or being constantly aware and thus having the illusion of control... But I digress.

And as for the prospect of biking (generally my prefered mode of transport), in D.F. traffic, it seems the equivalent to a death wish/suicide mission. Most likely, you'll get hit on your first day out, not to mention the problems of theft & being exposed to all the pollution & robber types who would have direct access without having to break your window.

Then again, I am accutely aware that security is commonly cited as a reason for people not to adopt more socially and/or environmentally sound practices; I'm usually the first to get annoyed with this excuse. For example, hitch-hikers often face this line of argument in the face of promoting this mode of transport, which, aside from the obvious risks, carries so many benefits (i.e., low/no cost, no additional environmental strain, the opportunity to interact with and engage people from different walks of life, etc.).

There is an element of hypocrisy I am seeing in my willingness to conform to the mainstream as soon as it poses a real threat to me, a certain dissonence I just can't shake. But what now? Should I buy a bike and get hit by a car? Should I insist on taking public transportation, even by myself, at night?

I guess I will need time to resolve all these interconnected issues. Perhaps in writing, I will be better equipped to digest. Please excuse the rambling nature of the following paragraphs...

Some recurring questions, digested with Audre Lourde's statement "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house" in mind:

Can positive change be instituted in a top-down, hierarchical manner? Most large organizations designed for this purpose, including most areas of the UN, seem to operate thusly. (I'm happy to say that so far, in many important respects, GEO for Youth is still seeming a pretty grassroots, collaborative process for a project of its scope :)) How can we go about changing institutions while entrenched in those very structures we are, in theory at least, trying to re-build?

Or, more metaphorically speaking, what do you do when you are living in an apartment building constructed atop a toxic waste dump, the cellar rank, the walls moldy, & the whole package deteriorating fast? You know, deep down, that life in the building, as it stands and where it is heading, is not only unhealthy but unsustainable. You agree that, in theory, it ought to be changed, replaced with something better: something sustainable & durable & comfortable. But, although these ideals are attractive, you still need a dwelling, right now... And this delapidated apartment is the only home you have ever known.

Do you simply abandon ship, drag your loved ones into the street where you will all be exposed to the elements from which, despite its problems, the your old home had provided some protection? Do you stay put while trying to work from within, doing your best to beautify and repair it from the inside, even though some of its problems run so deep there is little chance they will ever be resolved? What do you do when the other residents don't seem to care, or to be willing to put in the work/sacrifice necessary to build a better alternative? Let's say you manage to convince your neighbours to tear down the building; together, you erect another, better habitat; and you actually manage to transition successfully... How do you dispose of the toxic remains, or ensure that a repetition of history is prevented?

Finally, if we are stuck in this rotting building, for the time being, is there no benefit in hanging art on the walls?

Feel free to comment.

Alright, maybe it's not totally home with all the warm, fuzzy connotations (yet?), but I have at long last found a place to rest my head, at least temporarily! It's at the corner (esquina) of San Lorenzo and Patricio Saenz in Colonia Del Valle.

I spent yesterday flipping out about potential homelessness after I found out very last-minute that Maru was being sent on a UN mission to Morelia (sp?) this morning and I could no longer stay at her apartment as of last night. Neither of the two places I'd checked out had given me good vibes and it was making me loca that I might have to make an immediate decision between: 1. an apartment four floors up a steep, rickety spiral staircase and 2. a room in the apartment of an old couple whom I hadn't even met.
Yes, I may be prone to slightly exaggerated emotional responses, as the absolute worst case scenario was to pay for a hotel. But on my current budget, a hotel for any length of time would have broken me and, more to the point, accepting even a temporary apartment where I wouldn't feel comfortable would probably have impacted poorly on my adjustment process. Okay, maybe I'm being a spoiled Canadian, but the fact is that it simply feels better to have found an affordable place to unpack my bags and not worry about being displaced at a moment's notice.

Note to potential house-hunters in D.F., especially those from non-Latin American countries: People here don't tend to live on their own, ever. They generally move out from their family homes to get married, and the only people I've met who live on their own are either hugely exceptional or are divorced...

Anyways, back to the present, I am renting on a 2-week trial basis (with the definite possibility of extension) a quasi-separate pad above a family home. The room itself has 2 single beds, 2 desks, and lots of cupboard space, as it is meant for 2 people. There are 2 other single bedrooms, empty at present, into which I may have to move if they end up wanting to rent to roommates. There is also a large living room area where the family holds dance lessons on Sundays, but apparently barely uses, and an adjoining dining room area. There is a kitchen area with plates, glasses, an ironing board and a sink, but not much else. Betty, the woman of the house, has said she will put in a stove if I decide to extend my stay, but for now I will be using the kitchen downstairs. It seems like there may be issues if people want to come visit (which totally sucks) but we'll see what happens. For now, I have a great space to myself.

Okay, they say a picture says 1000 words, so instead of trying to describe, let's see if I can finally download a pic! (If one doesn't eventually appear, I guess it means I failed in this endeavour :P)