Like a stranger in a foreign country

Originally posted Wednesday, July 9, 2008 at 2:55am

I am leaving Thursday, July 10 to study Spanish at la Universidad Autónoma de Guadalajara in Guadalajara, Mexico. This may be the last note I write for some time; I’m not sure. I probably won’t be checking the computer much in Mexico; in fact, I’m not even sure if my laptop is coming with me or not. My laptop has a virus and is very very sick. I don’t know if it will pull through. Also, I can’t install skype onto my laptop here because I can’t get onto the Internet with it.
I will remain in Mexico until August 9, at which point I will return home. Classes at OU start on August 25th. I don’t have a flight to Oklahoma booked yet, but I will remain in New Hampshire until at least the 16th or 17th, if not later. I look forward to seeing lots of New Hampshirites during that time. If you are reading this from out of state, yes, we really are called that.
I am both excited and terrified for Mexico. If I am lucky, I will get to make some authentic Mexican foods, visit an Indian village, see an art museum, shop at what I am told is the largest covered market in all of Latin America, and watch my first ever professional soccer match. I’m also kind of hoping I find a Mexican wrestling mask somewhere so that next semester my unsuspecting roommate can become “El Frogtorb.” Men applaud, women swoon, dastardly scoundrels relieve themselves in their britches before the masked might of “El Frogtorb.”
On second thought, people already feel that way about Anthony. He might be far too convincing for anyone to take “El Frogtorb” seriously.

So unfortunately I have barely been able to sleep at night this summer, owing to my own poor sleep habits and the fact that my thoughts keep me awake. A few weeks ago, in a fit of pique, I turned on the television to console myself and began watching one of the Spanish channels. First I saw the end of an infomercial for el “Miracle Blade.” I watched a man in a chef suit cut through a boot and a pineapple with el Miracle Blade. He was quite good at slicing tomatoes as well. I was jealous.
I’m not very good at cutting tomatoes, dear reader. If any of you went to the restaurant where I work during finals week and found really screwed-up tomato slices on your sandwich, I apologize. That was me.
Next a trashy daytime talk show came on, which was strange since it was three in the morning. The first segment was called “Mi novia le quitó la virginidad a mi hermano.” Now, I’m no Spaniard, but I believe that loosely translates to, “My girlfriend deflowered my brother.” The guests for that segment really didn’t seem to get along too well at all. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, though, so I’m not exactly sure what they were arguing about.
(Speaking of classy programming, earlier that day I had almost watched one of the fine reality dating shows on MTV. However – I’m no neurologist, dear reader, but it soon occurred to me that if I did not spare myself this cruel fate, I would immediately begin to lose brain cells. And I need all the brain cells I can get. I can’t be taking any chances with my pretties.)
I’d like to think Spanish talk shows could help me. I figure, if I just watch one illicit love affair a day, I will surely learn the language. My brain cells may die, but they will speak Spanish once they’re dead. But I don’t know, the people on those shows are impossible to understand.
I have a little better luck with foreign films. I had almost forgotten how fun and helpful they are until my delightful friend Becky indirectly reminded me. On Monday I watched “Maria Full of Grace” and learned some important life lessons. You know those people who swallow drugs in order to smuggle them into America? And you know those other people who get the drugs back out of them once they arrive? Well, if you want friends, you should NOT hang out with those people. They are not your friends.
The second group I mentioned, that is. The first group is slightly misunderstood.
I also watched “That Obscure Object of Desire” by Luis Buñuel. Unfortunately, that movie turned out to be in French, which I should have realized, since Buñuel is well-known for a short Surrealist film called “Un chien andalou.” I could actually understand a lot of the dialogue, which made me feel good about myself but isn’t really helpful for my present situation. At any rate, it was sort of interesting to watch, since a novel I read last summer, “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides, alluded to the title. “Middlesex” is the fascinating tale of a little girl who grows up to become a man.
Currently I’m in the middle of another Spanish movie, “The Motorcycle Diaries,” which is about Che Guevara and a road trip around Latin America that he took with a friend of his before he was famous. So far he’s having a few problems on the trip. You know, I bet that if he had taken a picture of himself, put it on a t-shirt, and sold it to people as he went along, the trip would have gone a lot more smoothly.
Also, tonight I got to go to the local art-house theater and watch“Mongol” with my delightful friends Chris and Kevin, and what a rip-roaring adventure that turned out to be! Two hours and six minutes of Mongolian carnage! I must say, Mongolian is such a beautiful language. So guttural!
(The main character is a young man named Temudgin, who eventually becomes the figure we know and love as Genghis Khan. At one point he tells his children that Mongolian is the most beautiful language in the world and that someday everyone will understand it.)
I also learned a couple of valuable life lessons from that film. One is that you should NEVER betray your khan. Another is that a wife should have strong legs because they make a man happy. Also, something about how if she has big eyes, evil spirits and stuff will crawl in them and make her go insane, but I’m not sure if that’s actually true.
I know what you’re thinking, dear reader: “Mongol” sounds like a compelling cinematic experience, but is there throat-singing? Is there?! More than you could ever possibly want! I was in heaven. I only wish I could sing like them.
On the way home, we almost hit a couple of longboarders and a family of skunks. Then we talked for a while as we watched some geese float on the town pond. Really, the only downside to the evening was that the little voice in the back of my skull that thinks up jokes kept bothering me during the movie, but I can live with that.

Because I like to conclude my notes with something from the Bible, I will leave you with a story I ran across today in 2 Chronicles chapter 18. Jehoshaphat, the Good King of Judah, has gone to visit Ahab, the Evil King of Israel. Ahab wants them to go to war together against some place called Ramoth Gilead. I will spare you the entire story, but I was struck by the following passage:

5 So the king of Israel brought together the prophets—four hundred men—and asked them, "Shall we go to war against Ramoth Gilead, or shall I refrain?"
"Go," they answered, "for God will give it into the king's hand."

6 But Jehoshaphat asked, "Is there not a prophet of the LORD here whom we can inquire of?"

7 The king of Israel answered Jehoshaphat, "There is still one man through whom we can inquire of the LORD, but I hate him because he never prophesies anything good about me, but always bad. He is Micaiah son of Imlah."
"The king should not say that," Jehoshaphat replied.

There’s probably an important life lesson here, but I’m too tired to figure out what it is. At any rate, it’s an interesting commentary on the clash between what’s true and what’s convenient.