4th Dispatch From Los Cabos: La Lengua De M

Monday, May 25 2009, 1:00pm Phoenix Sky Harber Airport

I'm sitting in Phoenix Sky Harbor International airport about half way through my five hour layover.  Phoenix is a lot like Cabo, expect for the parts that don't involve oppressive heat.  The transition to the states was a quick one.  Within minutes I started taking for granted that printed prices actually reflected the cost of items for sale, that I was unlikely to be accosted by salesman while in the bathroom, and the lack of Corona Light branded straw hats.  But the slowest transition, I think, is going to be the language.

Mi Experiencia En Escuela

I don't speak Spanish, exactly.  I only took three years in school, and the third was spent doing worksheets while the teacher, a disgraced former baseball coach (fired for [allegedly] buying beer for his players on road trips), sat in his office and ignored the fact that half the class was chewing tobacco and throwing their Coke-bottles-turned-spittoons at Unpopular Girl.  Worksheets were turned in on the honor system after we went over the answers as a class.  Final grades were based on whether or not you could eat super-hot salsa (aside from corrupting young athletes, his other obsession).  I played a lot of cards, didn't learn much, and graduated with an A and a bad case of heartburn.

Obviously the best way to learn a language is speaking it on a regular basis.  Lacking native-speaking friends, I'm left to do my best with two ladies at the Taco Truck, which it turns out, isn't very good.  The two of them constantly switch to whatever language I'm not using

Me: Hola! Cómo estás?

The Old One: Fine, how are you?

Me: I'm good, thank you.

The Young One: Bueno.  Que queres comer?

Me: Un burrito vegitariano, por favor.

The Young One: Veggie burrito.  With everything?

Me: AHHHHHH!  WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

The Old One: . . . Que?

Cabo San Lucas is a brilliant place to try to speak Spanish because almost everybody is bilingual and because they're trying to sell you something, they'll placate you all day long.  They're happy to rack their brains for obscure vocabulary.

Me (in a Mexican Dairy Queen): Cómo se dicé peanut butter cup?  Se dicé cupa de crema de cacahuate?

Him: . . . Reese's.

Peligros De Español

Spanish is a wonderful language to try when you already know English because you can guess at a large number of words.  For example:

computer  = computadora

car = carro

important  = importante

Thus, you can simply throw a Spanish-sounding ending on the end of an English word, and you just might get it right.  This approach can be fraught with peril, however, as in this example from a ping pong match.  Goal: I need points.  “Yo necisito” is definitely “I need,” but where to go next?

puntos = points

puntas = hookers

Even if your opponent can figure out from context which one you meant (for example, she may know that hookers are never a need, but a want, in which case you would have said “Yo quiero puntas.”), she may pretend to be shocked anyway.

Another peril is that Spanish is a gendered language; words have different endings based on whether you're applying them to a man or a woman.  I think my sister and I made our waiter's night when we had this teachable moment:

Me: Tu estás gordo. [You are fat.]

Her:  Otro ves. [Try again.]

Me: Hmmm... Tu eras gordo? [You are permanently fat?]

Her: (Offended) No! [(Offended) No!]

Me: Ohhhh.  Tu estás gorda. [You are fat and a girl.]

Her: Sí!

Another problem with a gendered vocabulary is having to make split second decisions about ugly people.  So if an extremely fat person steps into the public shower by the beach and isn't wearing a swimsuit, and you scream, you won't be able to tell your friends whether esta desnudo or esta desnuda without having to sneak around and look at the front side.

Now that I'm safely in Los Estados Unidos, I don't have to worry about this.  I could go to a brothel without asking for points.  I can call people fat without knowing their genital configurations.  And when the Taco Ladies think they can screw with me, I can tell them to Sé simpático o yo provocaré un incendio en te camión estúpido. [Be nice or I'll set fire to your stupid truck.]

3rd Dispatch From Los Cabos: Actividades De Verguenza

Friday, May 22 2009, 4:53pm Cabo San Jose, BCS, Mexico

A La Lugar De Veraneo

I'm sitting on a patch of sand that can't decide if it's a public beach or a private bar. There are speakers disguised as rocks playing the greatest hits of the early 90s. It's as if a teenager left the states on foot with a mix tape he recorded off the radio in 1991 and only just arrived. Still, it's the calmest I've been in four days. The resort employs a large staff of activity directors in charge of keeping you occupied while you're drinking yourself to death. His name is Jose and he must weigh 300 kilos. (Editor's note: That's totally a complete and utter lie. The activities staff is several people, all of average or above average attractiveness. I would consider myself lucky to make spoons with any of them. [Author's sub-note: I'm doing my own editing, so an editor's note is a bit pretentious. My apologies.])

Antonio's job description is activities director, although it should be “monologuing.” He has a joke for every situation, but since the same situations come up with some frequency, you get to hear each one a couple times a day. His favorite saying is “Mexican Rules.” In volleyball, if a girl doesn't get a serve over the net, she'll be encouraged to try again. “Girls serve twice. Mexican rules.” He'll allow a point to be redone or a close game to become a best-of-three series, all in the name of Mexican Rules. Antonio must be the Hoyle of Baja California, since all the country's rules are known to him and nobody else.

In case you are ever at the point in your life where winning the pool volleyball tournament seems like a matter of life and death, here are a couple of DOs and DON'Ts that may help you win those free-drink coupons.

DO Hit at the red-faced drunk old man who snuck onto the other team when the lady running the game wasn't looking. DON'T wear swimming trunks that are too loose on you as this will cause your ass crack to be exposed on jumping plays. Ass Crack isn't a good nickname no matter who gives it to you. DO invite the guys playing basketball to join your team before they form their own. DON'T take it easy on members of your own family. If they didn't want to have the ball spiked in their faces, they would have learned how to block DO remember that if you lose, it was just a game. DON'T lose.

A La Mar

Swimming is available in the ocean, of course, you've been in the pool for so long, why would you want to swim in a less-exclusive body of water? Fortunately, there are other options available without breaking the bank or leaving the letter S. You could try sunbathing, surfing, snorkeling, or sitting in a kayak and paddling (sometimes called kayaking, but never by people in the know.)

If you decide to try surfing, there are many hidden dangers you should try to avoid.

• Rocks (may cause injury or death)

• Sharks (may cause injury or bad-ass death)

• Dreadlocks (may cause me to hate you)

Surfing also requires several skills, none of which I possess. I have no balance, no upper body strength, and I don't go from rest to action without plenty of warning and a sandwich. If I had wanted to be bad at something in public, I probably would have gone to the park and tried to do a pull-up.

If decide to try Kayaking, don't. Kayaking is bullshit. They make it sound like an activity, but it feels like a job.

Snorkeling, however, more than makes up for the shortcomings of the aforementioned activities. It combines being-in-water-and-not-drowning with trying to touch fish, which is a delightful combination indeed. The only downside is that fish do not wish to be touched, but I don't want to have chubby thighs. Everybody's got to play the cards they're dealt.

Talking to fish doesn't help, whether in English or Spanish. Either they can't understand you through the snorkel or they're deliberately ignoring you. “Here fish. Heeeeere. Fish. Vien aqui. Don't worry, I won't hurt you. We ate a seafood place last night and I was a huge pain in the ass. I made the waiter walk two doors down and buy me nachos. That's how much I don't want to eat fish. Yo quiro te tocas, pezes. Por favor, pezes. Por favor!”

Fish don't like me but I like them. They don't do much but hang out in large groups waiting for something bad to happen (much like middle schoolers), but they're a lot of fun to look at. I'm never going to pay back my mob debts on the off chance they mean “snorkeling near a reef” when they say “swim with the fishes.” Maybe they don't usually mean that, but down here even the mobsters play by Mexican Rules.

2nd Dispatch From Los Cabos: Personas En Los Cabos

Thursday, May 21 2009, 3:25pm Cabo San Lucas, BCS, Mexico

Los Habitantes de México

During your stay in Mexico, you are likely to meet Mexicans. Many of them will be wonderful to you, the rest will try to sell you a timeshare. Those who do not sell timeshares either work in the tourist area, in which case they are probably making jokes about trying to sell you a timeshare, or they do not, in which case they are probably running a red light.

The only exception to this last rule is if they are children, and then they present an even greater problem. You see, school children in Los Cabos (and possibly the rest of this great country) wear uniforms to school. Thus, you may (successfully) reason that school girls wear school girl outfits. This may be confusing to you, since you are American and have only seen school girl outfits on adult women who are trying (often successfully) to look hot. Maybe you've even got a bit of a thing for women in school girl outfits. I don't know; I'm not your credit card bill. But if you are that kind of person, stay away from Los Cabos. You are no longer a man of taste, you are a creepy non-citizes trying (unsuccessfully) to talk your way out of Mexican jail.

Despite dressing like porn stars, the children in Mexico are amazing. Even the smallest child I've met here already speaks fluent Spanish. I didn't even start taking Spanish classes until I was in middle school and I didn't start learning the language until two years later when I moved up to highschool and my brain turned back on. Their children are also impressive for their ability to stand outside restaurants where tourists are eating and, for at least a moment, remind us how lucky we are to be God's favorite color.

Touristos

Tourists come in all shapes and sizes. (I was going to say “shapes, sizes, and colors” but, as previously indicated, the tourist population is pretty homogeneous.) The primary shapes are “jock” and “soft serve.” The primary size is “big.” The average annual income, if written out in Pesos, would bore me long before I got to the centavos. (A note on the humble Peso: it more than makes up for its worthlessness in color and design. 20 and 50 peso notes, for example, both contain transparent sections, something I highly recommend the U.S. Treasury try out [personally, I'd favor putting them over Andrew Jackson's giant, ugly head. Asshole.]. Also, if you're ever in Mexico, be sure to visit an A.T.M. And check your account balance. It feels like entering the country came with a hefty signing bonus.)

Take, as an example of the typical party, the group we met in the pool. To protect their anonimity, let's just call them “assholes”. These assholes are all here to celebrate their graduation... from their freshman year of college. Their father, a congenial, balding fellow one might assume is named Norman, buys them buckets of beer whenever one of them can muster the energy to yell “Hey, fucker. Get us more beer.” (It probably goes without saying that he doesn't actually have to go anywhere to buy beer. There are are more waiters than umbrellas, and they deliver directly to your pool chair or 19 year old son.)

There are plenty of more polite young people, many of whom took the time to actually graduate before patting themselves on the back, but I fear these are not outliers. As per the general population here, they seem to have had a dress-code meeting I missed. 1 in 4 jocks is wearing a stupid-looking hat he bought from a beach-vendor. 2/3 of the adults are wearing t-shirts they got while on a cruise. The other 1/3 is wearing a Hawaiian shirt. And everybody, absolutely everybody, is sunburned despite spending several hours thinking about how it feels like a good time to reapply sunscreen

As some of my more astute readers may have already noticed, I am also here. Do all these generalizations, exaggerations, and derogatory names apply to me as well? Yes and no. My aunt and uncle own the timeshare here, and they're not rich. They are both employed, and they don't have kids, which frees up a lot of disposable income. Which they have disposed on my behalf. More importantly, I feel a sense of superiority because, I'd bet 10 Trillion Pesos (that's the standard bill that comes out on an ATM and is red in color), none of them are as funny as I am.

 

1st Dispatch From Los Cabos: Conocimiento Primero

Wednesday, May 20 2009, 8:55am Cabo San Lucas, BCS, Mexico

El Diablo Del Cielo

As I looked into Matt's eyes, trying to determine if he was truly human or, as I suspected, a monster from the deepest pit in hell sent to destroy me, he did something unexpected. He yawned. Not in a way that said “I'm bored with you, peasant,” but in a way that said unequivocally, “I got up at 3am.” Suddenly I was no longer afraid of him. We had found common ground, something to talk about. “Oh! It IS stupid that we had to get up so early, isn't it?”

Matt wasn't a very good conversational for a nine-month-old, but he did try to eat my shirt, which I took as a compliment. His exhausted mother (whose name I failed to learn during the flight) had only one purpose in life as far as I could tell: keeping Matt from escaping. Since he couldn't tell the difference between food and shirts, it was probably for the best that he failed.

We changed planes Phoenix, leaving behind Matt and his three year old sister (who, moronically enough, thought all of the Disney princess in her coloring book should have blue hair; idiot.), replaced them with a group of belligerent yet playful drunks (an omen if I've ever seen one), and headed out again. An airport question: Why do Alaska airlines planes have a picture of Wooly Willy on their tales? What do classic toys have to do with flying or Alaska?

Hola, Cabo. Como Estas?

The first thing you'll notice if you ever travel to Los Cabos is that all the gardeners are Mexican. In fact, so are the construction workers and the maids. Aside from their hiring all these foreigners to do their menial labor, the most notable facet of Los Cabos is that every single resident is trying to fleece you. At the airport, there are five Men In A Line (MIAL) who take turns welcoming you. They ask what you've booked for your ground transportation to the hotel and then, no matter what company you choose, send you to the next available Desk-Based Liar (DBL). The DBL pretends to call for your shuttle, claims it's 15 minutes out, and then tells you he's been authorized to offer you a great deal on “fun packages” because the tourism board wants you to enjoy your stay. These cost money which, presumably, the DBL and the MIAL get cuts of. Eventually, you'll catch a whiff of their evil plan and make a mad dash for the exit. As soon as you are outside the building, you'll see a man holding a sign for your shuttle company, who will help you into a waiting shuttle that will take you directly to your hotel, tourism board be damned.

It's a pretty basic scam, and one that is almost comical to watch. Yet I'm still haunted by one detail: the shuttle companies, there to provide a legitimate service to the arriving tourists (Spanish: wallettos), are locked outside and can't approach the arriving passengers to pick up their customers. On the other hand, the DBLs and MIALs are built into the airport. They have the government's stamp of approval.

It doesn't get any better once you reach your destination. After you check in, you're directed to the “Welcome Desk” and asked if you “have your tickets yet for the Welcome Breakfast.” The Welcome Breakfast doesn't cost anything, but it does come with a free four-hour condo sales pitch. Once you say you're not interested, they offer you $600 in food and drink vouchers just to sit through their talk. If you're still not interested, the lady looks at you like you're mad, and then tells you to see another lady, who is most likely the “hard sell” jerk-bag. Then you run. And you don't stop running until you get on the plane to go home, and then you're actually looking forward to the drug-sniffing dogs of American Customs because at least they won't lie to your face.

Perhaps that was too melodramatic. I've actually settled into the rhythm of nobody being on my team pretty well at this point. I've gotten accustomed to the different currency (as soon as you land it's best to change your American Dollars for the local currency, The Corona Light). I've gotten used to the fact that I'm an outlier here (all people seem to do here is drink and look hot, two activities I don't participate in). I've gotten used to the Vengeful Day Star that never leaves the sky. And most of all, I've gotten used to eating Mexican food, and just calling it food.

Swine Flu Jokes I've Made

Monday, April 27 2009, 10:30am Portland, OR

• If malaria was as inefficient at killing people as swine flu is, it would jump off a building.

 

• If you get swine flu, don't panic. Just get lots of swine rest and drink plenty of swine fluids.

 

• I don't get it. Wouldn't swine flu just be nuisance and a couple days off work for pigs? Why are we freaking out about this?