Travel Writing in Mexico 2007: Archives

BETH PALMER (journalism student) writes:
I once devoted entire moments to immerse myself in the intricacies of Chicago’s inner clock. I was a tourist. I sat on a concrete breaker located at Oak Street Beach and witnessed the moon rise as a college student sprinted toward Lake Michigan and lept into mid-air frontflips. His feet stomped craters in the sand.

The John Hancock building cast a shadowy presence on the beach. In the corner of my eye it took the shape of a giant rook piece from chess, towering over the bright neon-lit city night.

When I travel I usually go with what little history I already know. I skimmed a couple of Lonely Planet books before and during a trip through Eastern Europe in 2005. I am the type of learner who retains and is most excited by history when another person verbally passes the information. I compensate for knowledge I lack by noticing and committing to memory the nuances existent in daily life, like I did that one Oak Street Beach evening. My eyes the camera lens, I zoom in and zoom out, letting my mind fabricate theories about how each of those nuances play off one another, creating the culture, for example, in Guadalajara.

I have no fears about the trip; any mishaps will only further the adventure. I am excited about the blogging opportunity the trip provides and the multimedia nature of our homework and projects (We’re going paperless!).

I can’t predict what actually will happen during our stay in Guadalajara, but I can mention my probably wrong preconceptions: I visualize a bright color scheme in the clothing, painting, pottery, and upholstery. I envision the people glistening with sweat, always squinting at the constant sunshine. And, of course, I expect each meal to be subsequently the best meal I’ve ever had. Mexican cuisine es mi favoritio de todos. (Me hablo Espanol solo un pico – es mal!)

Adios, Chicago!

BETH PALMER (journalism student) writes:
Before flying to Guadalajara for our three-week class, Maestra Puente told the five of us students what to expect from Mexican immigration. After border control stamps passports and baggage is claimed, a button must be pressed, she said. If it turns green, continue out the doors and into the airport’s meet-and-greet area. But if it turns red – which it never had in Puente’s dozens of prior visits – security will search all of your baggage.

Her warning lingered in our conversation – “When do we press the button?” I asked the other girls as we filed through Guadalajara border control.

“I hope I don’t get red,” Christy said.

After hours waiting at O’Hare International Airport earlier that day and then a nearly four-hour flight, none of us looked forward to a guard tearing apart our meticulously packed, incredibly stuffed bags.

We just wanted to get to our taxi.

I was the first of us five to approach the yellow traffic light that stood alone, adorned with two buttons and two sets of lights. I slung two bags over my right shoulder and balanced my duffel on my wheeled bag and reached out and pressed the button.

RED! The buzzer sounded off like a backing up truck and everyone in the baggage claim stared.

“Step to the side,” commanded the guard. “Place your bags on this table.” He pointed to a gray plastic counter. I laughed at my “luck” as I answered the his first question: “Is this your first time in Guadalajara?”

“Yes,” I said, still smiling as he unzipped my laptop bag. Then it struck me this was an airport – security was no joke, despite this game-show random roulette system of green and red lights. I tucked away my grin but at the same moment a twinkle appeared in the guard’s eye:

“Do you like tequila?”

“No!” I said, “I don’t drink!”

He had opened one zipper of a 10-plus pocketed computer bag and laid neither a hand nor an eye on my remaining four pieces of luggage.

“Have a nice trip,” he said.

Photo: Our group in Centro

BETH PALMER (journalism student) writes:
New white candles flame in dried pools of wax, but there isn’t enough light to capture the concierto on camcorder.

The camcorder could show my absent roommates the magic of Radaid, a young Mexican quartet composed of a breathtaking vocalist and inspiringly talented violinist, percussionist, and guitarist. Radaid sounds like a finely produced independent movie soundtrack as their instruments send Indian and techno-sounding vibrations bouncing around the high azul ceilings and tiled archways of Haus der Kunst – a trendy café and modern art gallery owned by a German native, but 20-year Guadalajara resident, named Helmut.

The violinist stands back in the shadows from his mates; the tight-jeaned male guitarist doubles as a second percussionist and the curly black-haired female percussionist play a variety of hand drums held between her knees. She wears a white ring for a hard rapping sound and shakes tambourines and bead-filled gourds. The vocal range of a large German opera star floats from the singer’s rail-thin 20-something frame.

Her pure ancient voice cuts into the diners’ friendly chatter.

Silence.

No one looks at each other; everyone stares with inquisition at the source of the angel-soul-toned song. Even the lovers who were nose and nose, lips to lips, have parted.

Although completely blind, this woman received a double-strength larynx from God in exchange for her fifth sense.

And I thought she was the star.

But the violinist stepped forward from the shadow and his bow became a teetering blur and his strings sang.

I was in love with him before we left.

BETH PALMER (journalism student) writes:
Spending three weeks in Mexico knowing three years' worth of basic Spanish has led to laughable moments, as meaning is lost in translation. Here’s a recent highlight:

The child who thought I was crazy
In Guanajuato, a lush and colorful city comparable to Italy’s Florence, I sipped Cuban coffee in a café called El Conquistador. I dipped a fresh chocolate-iced cake donut in my steaming cup.

The tiny shop had six chairs, three tables, and as much open floor space as bathroom. Soon that entire space filled with a family of five, dragged in by the youngest daughter who wanted a donut. The pig-tailed girl of about five years walked up to my table, towing a blond doll about half her size.

“Donde compraste este dona?” she asked.

“No se,” I answered, assuming she was wondering how much my donut had cost.

She looked startled, her brown eyes wide, and just walked away in silence. Then, realizing her question actually meant, “Where did you buy that donut?” I laughed out loud. I had answered, “I don’t know.”

As her father bought her a chocolate-iced donut like mine, the little girl held on to his leg but kept looking back at me with obvious confusion and wonder.

“Why didn’t that crazy lady know where she bought her donut?” she probably thought. “The crazy lady is sitting in the café where she bought the donut!"