there's just a tinge of fall to the air these days, just an insinuating coolness at night that says, don't think summer's going to last forever, you'd better get on enjoying the dregs because something else is about to happen. Usually I love this time of year but this time around I'm feeling increasingly panicked about time passing, because it means I'm that much closer to a deadline I'm increasingly convinced I have no way of fulfilling.

My thesis is growing in fits and starts. I still dread sitting down to work on it, but hey. After much hemming and hawing I submitted the first twenty-three pages, which were returned to me with more red ink than black on them. I suspect this is not an unusual way to proceed, but illustrates all too clearly that I need to become far more thick-skinned and in short order.

The two most important lessons I have learned so far from this new intellectual milestone are as follows: a.) I am far smarter than I think I am, and b.) I am not nearly as smart as I think I am. I am smarter, in the sense that the Jedi Council seems to think I am worth training up in the ways of the Force, and my progress from here on out is individual. So far they haven't violently swept all my work off the table and said, "This is unserviceable folderol! Where do we even begin?!" Which, again, I think is a good sign.

I am not nearly as smart as I thought, in the sense that the more brilliant I feel one of my ideas is, the greater the likelihood someone else has already said it. I recently discovered that I will have to credit two of my most prized ideas because I was not the one to originate them. At least not the first one. I did originate them, since they came out of my own brain, just somebody else did it first is all. How disappointing.

And so I slog, still dreading sitting down to write, though less so on each occasion. I have taken advantage of my summer for the things that make Michigan summers special, in my estimation: farmers' market, fresh tomatoes, late night swimming, micro-brews on the porch and the sound of the crickets, listening to Beck: Sea Changes in the car in the dark with all the windows down. Though it sometimes feels that the only thing that could possibly matter is whether I finish writing this crazy book probably no one will ever read who isn't paid to, co-authoring it, or a member of my immediate family, these things remind me there is plenty to enjoy, and that when this summer closes, another will come hard on its heels.

the bshdsflkfourne identity

See, I think I've been brought here to take over living some other girl's life. This girl is someone whose file I've clearly read time and time again until I know it by heart, though I can't remember doing it. I can give you so much of her personal history you'd scarcely be able to find a hole in my impersonation of her: it's no wonder I was chosen for the job, since we look alike, sound alike and have practically identical taste in music and skill sets, identical shoe sizes and mannerisms. I don't know who has put me here or what my mission is, but I have become so immersed as her doppelganger that my real life, back in that other place, seems like a retreating dream.

Although I can't be sure whether I am here against her will or in keeping with her wishes, I'm beginning to suspect she's on my side. I can tell because she leaves me these clues all the time. Before disappearing, she left her house very much in order, applying for loans so that I might live comfortably, arranging for her mail to be forwarded so that it would not inundate me, carefully aligning overdue library books on the table so that I'd see them first thing and return them (after perusing them, naturally, to inform myself as to her recent subjects of investigation). In general she has made it easy to take the helm. I am certain that she even planted messages for me in conversations with friends, knowing they'd remind me later of things she said, all so I could go about her daily tasks without breaking character. My relationship with her lover, after a bit of initial awkwardness, has been shockingly sincere and comes so naturally it's alarming. If he has detected the substitution he has said nothing about me being an impostor.

I don't know if she's ever coming back, this prior avatar. Frankly I hope she stays gone a while because I'm rather enjoying the life she left in place for me. If she does return, she'll undoubtedly be surprised that I may not be willing to forfeit everything to her as quickly and easily as she anticipated. In fact I sometimes feel that my superior life and world experience might even make me more fit for the role than she ever could have been.

If she does come back I imagine we'll have to battle it out at dusk on some abandoned quay, and the whole melée will end with her swimming off into the night, never -- or ever -- to return. Or maybe things will just continue as they are, until I one day stumble upon the vital piece of evidence that reveals the mysterious connection that binds me to her.

To be continued.

I guess I got my wish

If my wish was to be a full-time writer, that is. My jobby-job seems to have evaporated while I was in foreign lands, so I've decided to dedicate 40 hours a week to writing my thesis. Friday was my first day and I overslept, then left off early...nonetheless, I made more solid progress than at any time in the last few months, so I think this might work.

I'm not sure how I'll eat in the meantime, but that's such a mundane concern that I prefer not to think about it for now. I did get approved for my first (and hopefully last) round of student loans for this fall, which is also unfamiliar territory for me.

In fact everything's a bit terrifying: the notion of not working for the first time in my adult life, the notion of writing a book, the self-discipline it will take to finish that task, accepting debt that I have no immediate, concrete method of paying back...

I guess it's in order to cope with my panic surrounding all this that I've begun to think of it all in terms of there's this girl I've hired to write my thesis for me. She seems competent enough, and I think she'll eventually get it done to my satisfaction. It's a financial risk I'm taking, and I've had to take out a loan to pay her a living wage and secure her some benefits, but I think it's worth it. If she comes through, the professional rewards I'll reap will be well worth the expense.

Meanwhile, this girl has hired me to write her thesis. I know she's not in the greatest of circumstances right now to be paying someone to do this, but I need the work and she's taking a chance on me, so I'm determined not to let her down. The money isn't the greatest but it's understandable why she can't pay me more, and the intellectual experience will be good for me.

Yeah, I reckon we'll make it through.

contents may have shifted upon re-entry

And then all the sudden you’re home. And your life returns to its normal course; well, almost. You perceive it all differently now; it’s as though there’s a film over your eyes, or as if a film has lifted. I reallly didn’t think enough time had passed for this to be true but as it turns out I was gone longer, or more profoundly gone, than I had thought I was.

So the funny thing is that there appears to be a ritual of returning. I can’t decide if I do these things to overcome my culture shock or to wallow in it a bit longer. I’m one of those annoying people who’s like, well, in MEXICO, they do things THIS way, and when I was in MEXICO, I did THAT thing. I can hear myself doing it but can’t seem to contain it for the time being, which suggests to me it’s simply something I need to do, at least for a while.

There are other surprising ways in which coming home this time has been the same as last time. For example, I’ve listened to a lot of Silvio Rodríguez. The funny thing is he isn’t even Mexican. But he does sing in Spanish and is very, very depressing. If you looked in my fridge right now you’d see tortillas, beans and lots of jalapeños. I made a brief foray into the garlicky, Italianesque flavors I had been missing, but two days on I once again crave chile and lime with everything.

There are tradeoffs, naturally: being reunited with Phantom Limb, as I nicknamed my dog after the first week I spent without him. The house I live in is vacant except for me and P.L. and though I only have access to the smallest of three apartments, I’m insulated from the comings and goings of neighbors at least til the end of this month. I have commandeered the porch and its furniture, even though it technically pertains to one of the vacant apartments, and intend to make enough of a tradition of drinking my morning coffee there that the new occupants will assume the porch is part mine (hopefully disregarding that to get to it I have to climb out my bedroom window). The porch chairs and table were left by the previous tenants, and since they are upholstered in brown and aqua and match my bedroom I have decided they shall henceforth belong to me. Having a car and a bike to get around with isn’t all bad, and though it feels like someone is breathing on me at close range all day long, the humidity and the tree-ey-ness (oh dear lord, there must be a real word for that) make me feel enclosed, sort of cradled and protected. The exact opposite of the “región más transparente del aire”, as Humboldt nicknamed the Mexican plateau.

I’m still seeing the States with an outsider’s perspective, I think. Everybody seems so trashy, maybe because in the last few days I’ve made 1482 trips to the Harding’s on Howard for one thing or another. People speak ungrammatically with these threadbare voices completely spent by cigarettes and booze, and drag their obese bodies around atop irredeemably ugly shoes. And surrounding these bizarre lumbering creatures, everything made for their use and amusement is so sleek and abundant.

Except my friends, of course. My friends are immediate, genuine and careful around me when I've been away. They are sparkling and busy with any number of noble and clever pursuits. I have promised them I will come home soon.

why I'll never go native

Yesterday a golondrina flew into my classroom. A golondrina is a swallow; as so often happens with birds its name is much more lyrical in Spanish and better fits a tiny, airborne feathered thing. I had only ever seen them soaring and swooping, the sun glinting blue-black off their sleek backs, a flash of red belly during a particularly daring dive. I used to go to a bridge over the dwindling river to watch them flit back and forth whenever I felt homesick.

In Mexico it’s good luck to have a golondrina. People plant nests for them hoping they will fill them, and the birds will roost, then disappear, then return again and again. The golondrina, in Mexican folklore anyway, is thus a precious, restless little creature who, despite its wanderlust, never forgets its home.

(Perhaps you begin to understand why I have one tattooed on my arm.)

This one I didn’t recognize at first. Cowering on the floor of a dark room, its feathers dulled to gray. It seemed injured or paralyzed by fear, far from evoking the lyrical acrobatics I associate with the word -- and the bird -- golondrina. I stood dumb, not knowing what to do but unable to leave the little bird trapped in a corner under a table.

Luisa, one of the student assistants, came in. O, she said, una golondrina. Pobrecita, está atrapada. Levántala. Pick her up. It won’t bite me? I said. Luisa glanced at me, quizzically but too kindly to say anything, and stooped. She cradled the tiny bird in her hands and carried it out to the terrace, where she knelt down and opened her palms.

The bird rested there, closing its eyes, stretching over these two shiny black seeds a pale gray veil of the most delicate tissue. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to take it in my own hands and feel its diminutive heart palpitating against my fingers. For several seconds it seemed lulled by the fresh air and light. No vuela, Luisa said, disappointed. No, I said, it can fly. Gently I stroked its belly and it shuddered awake, took two tentative steps across Luisa’s hand and traced a graceful arc over the lip of the terrace and across the courtyard out of sight.

This morning on the bus, while I was abstracted and thinking about the golondrina, a tiny person perched on the seat next to mine. I couldn’t tell at first whether it was a man or a woman; he, or she, wore a black stocking cap and a white fleece jacket several sizes too big, in spite of the heat that already pressed in on us at nine in the morning. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a brown and leathery face, cured by sun and wind, and the broad, angular nose that betrays the indigenous here. After a moment this person spoke to me in a quiet tenor that further failed to resolve itself into male or female. ¿No hace como friyito? the voice said. No, I replied, I didn’t feel cold. Other passengers turned to look, perhaps wondering why someone would confide in me, a stranger, a foreigner. I mentally checked the location of my passport, my backpack, my camera, my wallet.

It was when a tiny, icy hand rested on top of mine where they lay in my lap that I realized she was a woman. I looked up into her face. Why are you so cold? I asked her. I don’t know, she said. Sometimes I think I don’t have any blood anymore. You must have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, I said and smiled, not really knowing what else to say.

She regarded me blankly. I studied her back. A life spent smiling had carved crow’s feet around her eyes, but they were ringed with a watery film as if she had recently been crying or indeed very ill. She told me she supposed it was natural for her to have no blood, since they took hers little by little each day in a hospital, four o’clock in the afternoon, four o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t sure to have understood her, so I made some general sympathetic comment and fell back into silence. A moment later, she announced bueno, aquí me bajo and shambled out of her seat. When she turned her back to walk down the aisle of the bus I realized the stocking cap concealed a bald head, and out of the top of the fleece jacket protruded the bones of an undernourished spine. Cancer, I thought. And she had tried to tell me, had given me chances to ask, and I had failed to hear.

I felt ashamed. How hard would it have been for me to trust such a small and defenseless person? How hard would it have been for me to take those cold, misshapen little hands and hold them in my warm ones for the duration of a bus ride? How hard could a tiny golondrina have bitten me before I set it free? What is it in me that flees this contact, this encounter? I know what to do and I yearn to do it, so why do I mistrust when I should love, and only realize it after?

My hands on my keyboard feel scalding hot, cursed. They are full of warmth and life if I could figure out how to share them.

and yet...

Further evidence that Querétaro is increasingly my second home: upon visiting Mexico City this weekend, three weeks into my time here, it dawned on me: I’m in Mexico for the summer. I was at the National Anthropology Museum, far from the home-away-from-home of my mundane, routine pursuits, watching it rain when this obvious realization finally clunked into place.

It occurs to me the word “home” has been cropping up with startling frequency in my writings lately.

Mexico City is a megalopolis, which essentially means two things to the casual traveler: 1.) everything that’s cheap elsewhere is exorbitantly priced because of the massive, war-zone-like distribution problems, and 2.) a lifetime wouldn’t be enough to see and do everything you can think up to see and do over the course of two days, so you have to save something for next time and resign yourself to sensory overload and exhaustion. For example, day one: ruins at Tenochtitlán in the morning, anthropology museum in the afternoon, followed by a night of mariachis, lasso tricks, folkloric dancing and cock fights, all enjoyed over a supper of roasted goat. Day two: Chapultepec (Mexico City’s question, if Central Park is New York’s answer to it), palace and home of Mexico’s six-year emperor, palace of fine arts, lunch at a café after which one of your favorite bands has named itself, and the National Museum of Art.

Here’s a fun game to play when you’re in Mexico: find the one weird thing wherever you are. No matter where you are and what you’re doing there’s always at least one thing in your environment that’s completely incongruous. You’re in the art museum looking at painting after 17th century painting of martyrs and Marys and suddenly there’s a kid in a wrestling mask. You’re in a shi-shi restaurant eating a buffet lunch Mexicans have prepared thinking it will appeal to Americans (featuring, for example, a substance almost but not quite entirely unlike mashed potatoes) when out of nowhere a man in a feathered headdress and loincloth barges in and starts blowing into a conch and whooping and whirling about. Times like these you don’t have to look too far for incongruities. Other times you have to dig a little deeper, but don’t worry, they’re there.

Another thing about Mexico: it’s baroque by nature. Baroque everywhere else went out of style a couple hundred years ago. Here, baroque is like energy: it doesn’t disappear, it merely changes form. The Palacio de Bellas Artes, a triumph my friends and companions had to drag me from kicking and screaming because I didn’t ever want to leave EVER, has all the grace and harmony and whimsy of my beloved art deco while still remaining summarily, consummately Mexican. If you visit the post office you’ll need to sit down after mailing your letter; the post office is breathtaking, and I am not even exaggerating.

I used to be ambivalent to Mexico City. After this weekend I really like it. Someone gave me a book of poetry. I took a picture of a fireman with his dog in the Zócalo. I got stalked by some strolling minstrels. I scratched the surface, and I will go back.

mexico reloaded

The funny thing about going back is how different everything isn’t. The things that surprised you the first time around, you expect them to be at least a little novel or disconcerting upon reentry, but they aren’t, you just kind of assume them again very quickly. I guess I thought I’d hear music I’d forgotten, taste flavors I’d left behind, and visit places I had neglected to miss and feel nostalgic, but really, being here hasn’t jogged my memory about much. This time around my recollections seem to have been remarkably faithful. Maybe I just haven’t stayed away long enough.

This is probably tied in with why I don’t have any over-arching, grandiose observations about Mexican culture or people for the time being. There are definitely some differences since last time I was here, but mostly in me: this time around I’m much less interested in meeting people I don’t know. I’m much more protective of my time, where and how I spend it and with whom. I’m less into playing paddleball with my heart and more invested in my job and my friendships. I’m more critical of what takes place in my environment. All this in some ways makes me more Mexican, more like the people who live out their lives here without assigning any special significance to living out their lives here.

On the other hand my current existence in Queretaro is much more provisional than before. Last time it seemed important to unpack, decorate, make a home for myself. I have yet to unpack. Although I’m staying the same amount of time at China’s this year as I did last, I don’t feel uncomfortable with the notion of living out of my suitcase for another month.

I don’t feel the urge to travel. In fact I’d love an excuse to stay home for a weekend. I’m traveling anyway, because it’s free and I’d be sorry later if I didn’t, but somewhere along the way my fever for the open road seems to have broken.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m very happy here. Despite missing my dog and my neighbor there’s no place I’d rather be, at least for a little while. At times I feel disappointed with myself for feeling so complacent, for not taking advantage of every single moment to pack them with unforgettable adventures. Given the life I’ve chosen to lead for the last ten years or so I would consider the loss of my sense of adventure as a sort of death.

But then I take such pleasure from the most mundane occurrences. La China lends me the car. I find my favorite shampoo on sale. I get paid in pesos. All of this is also an adventure of sorts, being a normal person in normal circumstances in a place that’s very much not normal for me. I start feeling like I could do it forever if I had to, although unlike last time I’m now fairly certain I don’t want to. I tell all this to China, my fellow Globe-Trotting International Person of Talent and Intrigue. She shrugs and says, yeah, because it’s your second home.
Congratulations. You’ve finally made it. You’re culturally integrated. You can tell because you feel so damn prosaic. That’s the irony I guess…home is where you hang your wonder.