Two Worlds

Last night I went out to "Container City." They've taken old shipping containers and turned them into bars and restaurants. It's very shi-shi. I went there this weekend with my bosses as well - lots of techno music, lots of college kids, lots of neon lights. I'm not entirely sure of the context of our trip, but we wound up doing a Mezcal tasting. The liquor is like a cross between tequila and whiskey with smokey undertones - it's made from organic agave and guaranteed to leave you hangover-free (fact). It was a very classy experience, except for the bartender himself who didn't seem to hold his mezcal as um, professionally as the rest of us...we ended the evening by driving over to the Mariachi brothers' taco stands on the side of the highway. With enormous greasy hands, Benjamin made us some of the most delicious burritos I've ever had (and more meat than I've eaten in the past 6 months combined). Like many others I've encountered, Benjamin recounted a story of his trip to the United States where he worked for less than he should have, saved every penny he could, shouldered difficult social situations and cultural barriers and brought money back to Mexico. I don't think I've met anyone who hasn't either gone to the States themselves or known someone who has.

As for my own experiences, I wake up every morning caught between two worlds. I open my eyes every morning and they focus on my rug - a blanket of bright pinks and greens, then on the tile below and the bunk bed above my head. I hear dogs barking (always with the dogs barking), the gas vendors who drive around all day selling propane (the small irony isn't lost on me) and the celebrators of Carnaval who've started early with their rockets and poppers.

But my mind doesn't immediately register these images. I open my eyes an see the pale lime of my bedroom in NC with one small window of early sun, not a flood of the day's greeting. I think of the sun coming in through the front door over the mountains as I climb the stairs, not immediately of the ever-puffing Popo volcano now with snow on top from yesterday's storm. I think of breakfast (always with the food) and my mind smells scrambled eggs, slices of bagel, my dad's first batch of coffee and laugther (after my mom's had a cup, otherwise the laughter is more like a growl). I don't automatically think of jicama and papaya with lime and chili powder, or an egg quesadilla and coffee with my housemate. I think of rolling grass at Barkwells, and my own dogs, not of Chalupa and other scruffy mutts that hang outside of our door to the alleyway. Terri and Bobbi pass through my vision and then if my snooze button hasn't gone off yet, my friends waft by, like smelling cookies baking far away.

Every day I am fully here once I get myself going. But the creeping demon of "What are you doing here?" and the one I know too well "What will you do next?" slithers up and hovers in the nape of my neck just behind my ear. I've gotten better about whacking it away and truly opening my eyes to this day. But it's like any exercise. But unlike karate or ultimate, there's no sore muscle or score to guage my progress.

Will I ever feel like I fit somewhere? Be calm enough not to be restless? What about the people who take jobs for indeterminate times - the administrators, sales reps or teachers? What do they think when they look far down the road? The thing is, there's traffic and you can't really see what's coming. So when people say "How's Mexico?" I say it's my adventure and I'm living every day as best I can. Some day soon, I'll know that to be the very truth.