Mexican cantinas

It's all very well going to bar, a pub, a restaurant, but have you ever frequented a Mexican cantina? You know with the swingy doors, with the stench of urine emanating from the toilet doors that swivel shut as characters emerge from the latrine?

A few days ago, I visited several cantinas, and can assure you that it is an experience I will never forget, and enjoyed thoroughly. The centre of México City, close to the zócalo (which is where the Cathedral and el Palacio Nacional, and ofcourse a giant Mexican flag, and now during Christmas an ice skating rink!) , is home to several of said cantinas. In the past, visiting the centre at night was ill advised, however, after a recent project to encourage tourists and Mexicans alike to visit the centre which included installing cctv, and street lamps, the centre is a far safer area to visit. I am a scaredy cat, and can assure you that the centre is not only relatively safe (just don't flaunt your Rolex, and use some common sense), but absolutely beautiful.

The cantinas, the old ones, still have ficheras. They are women who sit at a table, and the men, can buy a ficha, a sort of poker chip, which they can then give to the lady and request a dance. Just a dance. This is not some form of prostitute, just someone to accompany you on the dance floor. It is truly charming to watch. After several tequilas, and beers, I danced the night away, merry as a mouse. It was glorious. The waitresses, with their tight jeans, slightly too tight for my taste, and pasty makeup, added to the charm. I believe that such tight jeans create what is called a camel toe...forming the outline of the women's "private parts", leaving nothing to the imagination. It was all out of a Cantinflas movie, and made me feel as if I had taken a big ole' step back in time.

I was invited to dance by some older men, who were slightly inebriated, and due to my shyness I said no thank you. When they kept asking, I was told to simply say that my boyfriend would get jealous. It worked like a charm! Great tip for Latin American countries!

The cantinas serve chicharrones (fried pig skin/fat) and complimentary peanuts on plates. Add some chile to the pig and peanuts, and you have a tasty snack to energize you for some serious dancing. Salsa, rancheras, cumbias....and don't be shy! I hope you may experience this one day. I sure am in love with cantinas, and am returning as soon as I can.

Viva México! Y viva la cantina Mexicana...Donde se llora, ríe, grita, baila, con una combinación de amargura y dulzura. En donde los amigos se reencuentran, en donde los enemigos se perdonan, y donde el tequila y la cerveza brindan por lo bueno y lo malo, por la vida que a veces no vale nada y por los que extrañamos con todo nuestro corazón.

E-mail nightmare...

Have you ever sent a million applications and become completely brain dead suddenly? Well friends it happened to me. Today. Not for the first time, but it happened. In a Royal manner. I was sending an e-mail to a friend of my cousin in Mexico City who works for one of the largest magazine companies in the country. The email was: j(followed by the surname) and for some reason I assumed that their first name was Julián. Why? I do NOT KNOW! I wrote the email to Julian. I sent it. Then I freaked out, realizing that I am a nincompoop. Why Julián?? WHY! I googled this person and realized that not only is their name NOT Julian, but it is not even a man, it is a woman, by the name of Jazmín. Now Julián could have been a José, and I may have been forgiven, but no...no no no. It had to be Jazmín, quite different from Julián. In a panic I wrote another e-mail, begging forgiveness, and wishing this Jazmín a Merry Christmas. I then even added a smiley face. Oh boy. Did I make it worse? Perhaps. Hopefully Jazmín has a great sense of humour. If it was me, I probably wouldn’t give someone an internship based on the poor research skills I just exhibited. How upsetting! Oh well...what can I do now? Wait and see I suppose. I admit that this has made me laugh whilst bang my head against the wall. I imagine that many people have stories like this, perhaps not quite as silly, perhaps more.

Anyways that is my latest observation on life, that I am a fool, and e-mailing can be lethal.

Nighty night,

Aynanita

Champagne....Yes please!

After a lovely Argentinean meaty lunch, or what in effect is dinner here in Mexico, I was invited by a very lovely young wine maker to a champagne tasting event. Now, it is not every day that such an invitation comes my way, so I enthusiastically agreed to come along. The location? The Intercontinental Presidente Hotel in Mexico City. Time? Eight. It actually started at around nine, as we Mexicans like to say an hour, whilst actually meaning an hour later.

I arrived with my father’s best friend, and his nephew (who was the wine maker and whose family owns a winery in Ensenada). I was not expecting the event to be as formal as it was, and upon entering a private room and seeing that we were to sit at a conference table, each placemat surrounded by glasses, I couldn’t help but giggle. (As did my father’s friend). At first the conversation revolved around wines, and of course champagne. Everyone was putting their two cents forward. Gestures were made, hands poised to underline the high level of exquisite wine they had just tasted God knows where, murmurs of agreement bounding about the room. The scene reminded me of something one would see in a Woody Allen. One of the gentleman present may or may not have had Botox injected into, his entire face, one lady had a fur coat so big she seemed to be drowning in it, another man was reminiscent of the slithering Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice. There you go, the evening was complete with a hodge podge of characters, each one encompassing some form of social stereotype, each one seemingly snobby.

I was, however, pleasantly surprised to find that the wise saying of "don't judge a book by its cover" was indeed very true (in this case) and as we imbibed our champagne, everyone at the table, loosened up, and eventually truly let go. The descriptions of the champagnes from their colour, amount of bubbles, smell, finally to its glorious taste were a plenty, and although hesitant to voice my opinion at first, I soon acquired what they call "Dutch courage" and voiced my views as I slurped away eagerly.

What on earth did you drink? You may wonder. Here is the list:
1) Ruinary Blanc de Blancs
2) Taittinger Prelude Grand Cru Brut
3) Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque 2000, Cuvee de Prestige
4) Louis Roederer Cristal 2002, Civee de Prestige
5) Laurent-Perrier Grand Siecle, Cuvee de Prestige
6) Laurent-Perrier Rose Brut

My favourite? Number five, unfortunately it costs 3,680 pesos, about $286 big bucks. At the end of the tasting, we all had to say which we preferred, and most importantly why. As each person eloquently described their most and least favourites, my heart started to beat rapidly. I admit, I was nervous. What on earth was I to say? At a loss, I said what I felt, and avoided any attempt to pontificate upon the liquids before me. I stood up, smiled, and cheerfully admitted that the most expensive champagne was my favourite. Why? Because it incorporated everything I wished for in champagne, it was fresh, a beautiful shimmering gold colour, and its bubbles raced to the top of the glass, the champagne swilled in my mouth and tantalized every taste bud, and it made me smile! I also added that due to the price, I probably could never afford it on a regular basis, so I also liked number one, (a more realistic choice price wise). I got a giggle from the others present, and felt an incredible sense of happiness when I sat down. Probably from the champagne but also from the thrill of having just spoken my mind ( I wasn't as detailed as I was here) and from seeing how unpretentious everyone really was. All these people were doing was sharing an appreciation for a beverage, and their respect for all the work that went into creating such a drink. I love that they found it ridiculous that some were so expensive, and we all agreed that of course what you like is personal, and as each palate is so distinct, putting a price on what is the "best" is very difficult.

[Nevertheless, I must add a note here. In a country with such a high level of poverty, there is something incredibly wrong about ssipping champagne whilst people are starving outside. Undoubtedly this happens all over the world. This argument could be applied to how wrong it is that we are privileged to eat three meals a day (some more!) whilst other in the same country, or in other countries starve to death. Awareness of what you have, and appreciation of ones situation in life is pivotal, we all know that, hopefully it can encourage us to be more generous towards those who aren't quite as lucky...I have always found that being in a country in which their are fierce contrasts between rich and poor, makes me more aware, exposed to how unfair the world is, and challenges me continuosly. You can't turn the little children begging for money off whilst you wait for the green light, as you can the television. You can't turn the page on the slums you pass everyday. It is there, very present, a reminder of how much work has to be done, and how important it is to participate in bringing about change....Nuff said.]

We all agreed that number three, the Belle Epoque was off; however, the sommelier was a tad bit proud and didn't concede this obvious fact until the end. Oh well. I suppose some sommelier's take it very personally. The fact is, that it is not the sommelier's fault if a bottle is bad. It is the process that makes a bottle off, the bottling, the care, the winery's "fault". As with all nature and organic products, some go bad. C'est la vie. The sommelier on our champagne night, sadly, became defensive, and unnecessarily insistent on how the champagne was fine. To each their own...To each their own...

After this glorious tasting we ate at a very fancy restaurant called Le pied du Couchon. Wowza! We had our own room, and glass doors that opened by pressing a green button (it was reminiscent of doors in a star trek or wars film). The delicacy of this place was a fried pigs hoof. At one in the morning I just could not stomach this (nor at any other time of day really..) so I had a soup. A delicious soup.
After many hours of talking, finally, at four in the morning I was driven home through an empty Mexico. Mexico City is never empty, except for in the early hours, and a journey that would normally take half an hour, took only fifteen minutes.

Home at last....into bed. Time to dream of champagne and pigs...Botox...and just how bizarre an evening I just had.

Love,

Aynanita

Air: ports and planes...

After now flying for what seems like a millions hours, and in reality is a whopping fourteen, I am finally in beautiful Mexico City! Leaving Oslo at seven in the morning, however, meant awaking at the early hours, beyond early really, at four am. But as I sit here, on my grandmother’s sofa, listening to her play the piano, I cannot help but feel that I am seven inches away from heaven. You see, my grandmother, aged ninety four, is in incredibly good health (knock on wood). Yes, her memory has started to go, but she does her exercises every morning, eats very VERY healthily, and most importantly, has tequila. Every day.

On the plane ride over, I sat in the luxury seats that I was graced with by BA, and felt every inch of my being tickle with excitement. I had intended to write about people at airports, but whilst at Heathrow I was so tired I couldn’t really focus on what was going on around me, (although, there was a very rude man who saw me through the security check. Poor fella’ I actually felt bad for him, because he bossed people around as if he was some sort of God, when he obviously had an inferiority complex. I smiled at him politely, and cursed him viciously under my breath (of course!) Flying with BA has always been so lovely. Especially when crossing the ‘pond’. Everyone is so polite. I was lucky enough to change my seat for one where I was the only one in the row. Heavenly. I do find it very amusing that the meal they served was a curry. I mean, how impractical?! The whole plane stank of curry! Now, I am not a great curry eater, due to my very sensitive disposition, but alas, I ate it. Every last piece of curry powdered chicken and dry rice. And then, oh yes, I ate desert too! I slept like a baby, and then watched some Julie Julia, a wonderful film, which made me hungry for something other than a curry. The sandwich that was served later on (coronation chicken….a theme?) was not satisfactory, but it was eaten. I felt that since money was spent on the ticket, I MUST eat the meal! Ridiculous, I know, nevertheless, how I felt.

When I finally arrived in Mexico, after flying for twelve hours from London, I was, as you can imagine, ‘pooped’. I had managed, however, to sleep on the plane so I wasn’t that tired. There is something soothing about sleeping in a plane, don’t you think? Especially if you have space to stretch your legs! I love waking up, and peeping out of my sleepy eyes, and seeing the clouds below, all white and poufy. I used to believe that planes flew above heaven when I was little, and would try and spot my grandparents. I have never told anybody this, so there you go. Wouldn’t it be nice if that was the case? That planes flew over heaven, and those you knew (lucky enough to be in heaven), would wave at you from afar, munching on bagels smeared in Philadelphia cheese, and eating ice cream. What I do not find soothing in a plane is going to the bathroom. Yes, you heard me, number two. The plane shakes and you feel that your last moment on earth (well in the air) is going to be sitting on an airplane toilet seat taking a shit (pardon my French). If the plane were to drop, would all the ‘matter’ in the toilet bowl fly up into your face? What if you lose your balance and have to steady yourself by accidentally placing your hands in the bowl?! Oh the horror! These are the distressing thoughts that I ponder as I sit there, wishing I could go, and so of course I don’t. When I was little I used to fear flushing the airplane toilet, because, let’s be honest, it sounds like a violent cookie monster is singing out of tune! Whilst eating what you have just gotten rid of! Horrific! For a child this can be traumatizing! In fact, it still scares me, and I never fail to jump a little when the horrendous flush bellows out of the jaws of the toilet throne.

I stepped off the plane, and for the first time in my life, I did not feel the altitude. Usually I feel it, I feel like I am about to faint! But not yesterday, I literally skipped off the plane, ready to commence what I know will be an important part of my life. I got my suitcases relatively quickly, despite being approached by a guy who was very nice to talk to. Very nice, until he asked for my email, or number. You know what? Why. Why did he have to go there! I was very clear that I was not interested, and he had to destroy our brief encounter by asking for my contact details! I am too emabressed to say no, so I gave him my email, knowing that I can always delete and block him. But, what does one do in those situatins I ask you? Just say no? But why? He was not a creepy man, he was just nice, and to be honest I am flattered that he was interested in me. Despite not being hansom, or especially interesting, it is flattering that someone finds you appealing isn’t it? One day I won’t be approached anymore, and people may even run away from me, weeping and screaming. So, I suppose I enjoy it whilst I can, no?

Anyways, I got through customs easily, and there was my uncle waiting for me with arms wide open! Off we drove home, and had a lovely ‘cena’ (evening meal) with my grandmother and cousins, simply divine! I awoke today with a broad smile on my face, and I feel at home.

I haven’t been out and about yet in the city, although I did walk with my grandma to the supermarket today to buy papaya. The weather is warm, everyone told me it would be cold, but as I am used to coming in the summer, the rainy season, I am used to the awful humid cold, now it is dry, and I love it! On the way to the supermarket we passed the fruit markets, and I waved at the ladies selling fruit. I love how gentle they are. How they know my grandma, how their plump little bodies fit carefully under the hand woven aprons, how they are missing a few teeth, and how they smile with their eyes.

I am off to eat tacos tonight.

All my love,

Aynanita

Hasta luego....

Well, for all of you who are kind enough to read my blog, perhaps you wonder why I have not been writing as often as I was lately. You see, I have been enjoying my last week in London. What what? You say? Ah, well, I am off to Mexico City for a couple of months. My blog, therefore, shall now be peppered with updates of my travels, useful insight for those of you considering jumping the pond and discovering the wonders of one of my favourite countries, Mexico.

I have not spent Christmas and New Years abroad in many years, so this should be an unusual and splendid experience. What do people eat for Christmas in Mexico? Do they have trees? What are the traditions? Mince pies? Nope. Ginger bread houses, nope again. Piñatas, posadas, yes yes yes! These Posadas consist of a re-enactment of when St. Joseph and the Virgin Mary were seeking somewhere to rest their weary heads. Families arrange neighbourhood Posada's to be held at their home, starting on the 16th of December and finishing on the 24th on Christmas eve, or Noche Buena. I remember participating in these in Oslo, where I grew up, organized by the Mexican community. Of course, my favourite part was the piñata after the marching around and singing. I also remember being dressed as an angel, in a white night gown. Not only did it itch, but it hindered me in grabbing several sweets when the piñata finally broke open. I did, however, feel very pretty and delicate (when I look at the pictures, however, I wince as I looked rather chubby, an angelic chubby cherub really).

And so I leave London, and prepare for a new chapter in my travels. Please keep reading the blog. It shall commence on the 19th of November. Until then, enjoy London's Christmas festivities that have already started! Such as the beautiful ice skating rink outside of the Natural History Museum. Harrod's and Fortnum and Mason's Christmas lights, the tree coming from Oslo for Trafalgar Square, the amusement park and skating rink being set up in Hyde Park (I saw them setting it up, it will be fun!) The mince pies that are on offer at Marks and Spencer's (two boxes of six, for two pounds!! TWELVE for two pounds!) Make yummy treats, and enjoy some hot toddy, mulled wine, some cava amongst friends to celebrate the fast approaching New Year. Keep looking on www.vouchercodes.co.uk, they are promising amazing new deals. Indulge in work parties, and the general merriment that is brewing. Oh, and check timeout London to see when the lord Mayor's fireworks will be on! They are amazing!!

In pure English manner, I say "ta ta for now", until I greet you all again with a "Hola compadritos!" from a land far far away..

Warm kisses and hugs,

Love,

Aynanita

Beautiful? Bah Humbug.

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. ~Kahlil Gibran

What is beauty? When is another individual someone you consider beautiful? In today's society in which beauty is often equated to tight abs and a pert buttock, we immediately relate the word beauty to external physical qualities. Perhaps it is an immediate response that is generated by virtue of our intrinsic need to categorize, and compulsive urge to judge based on what we see. "Ah, she has blond hair, fits beautifully into her tight jeans, and I can see the luscious curves on her body clutching delicately to her blouse which erotically hugs her breasts" [of course this is what all men think] Or, " ooooh look at how broad his back is and strong his arms are, with his stunning million dollar smile, and ay! I can see the outline of his toned body beneath his seemingly effortless outfit, and ah yes, he must be very well endowed..." [of course, all women think along these lines]. I know, I know, I am being facetious, and sarcastic, and I dare say I am not very good at it. My point is, these stereotypes of "beauty" flabbergast me at times, and I find myself adhering to what magazines, television, movies etc dictate as worthy of falling under the definition of beautiful more and more. It is true that when we see an attractive person, a sort of ingrained biological stimuli runs through our body, and we are whole heartily moved towards that person. Right? I am. I see an attractive man, woman, child, person of any age, shape or colour, and I find myself wishing that I could strike up a conversation with them. I say any age, shape or colour, and I realize that some of you will roll your eyes in disbelief. But, here is where the subjective view of beauty comes in. You see, beauty for me, does not lie solely in what a person looks like, but the feel I get from that person. Yes, I will dare to say it, beauty for me depends on the "vibe' that emanates from another being. Say what you will about certain energies flowing from people, but you cannot deny that for some inexplicable reasons you are drawn to certain people. Call it energy, aura, whatever, but there is something there, some chemical crazy thing happens and as though another persons soul lassos you in towards them, you are affected by that person. The complexities of our attractions to others grow apparent when we start to communicate with the person who grabbed our attention. It is then that the external is weighted against the internal (as it were). Lets be honest, despite feeling an attraction to some hansom fella', (or stunning gal), if he (or she) is an arrogant ass hopefully you won't pursue things too far. Obviously there are those times where you just think "oh to hell with it, this being is so beautiful, I just want to have some fun..." We all know, however, that that fun doesn't last forever, and a pretty face quickly loses it's shine if it isn't combined with a pretty personality. As I get older, I realize and appreciate how complex all our personalities are. Human beings are so damn complicated. Every one of us bears insecurities. Some of us are more skilled at hiding them, others don't find the need to and wear their hearts on their sleeves. We all have our story, we all have been shaped and moulded over time. That is just the way it is. Things happen to us over time, these things, events, moments, mould and shape our characters - quite inevitable really, as inevitable as growth, and time moving forward. Self involvement, and a certain level of selfishness is also quite inevitable in human beings. It isn't a bad thing. Hey, we all care about ourselves. You just cannot be fully selfless. I firmly believe that saying you are totally self less is quite tricky. Even the act of being self less makes you feel good, so aren't you then sort of catering to your own needs as well as those who benefit from your generosity of spirit, beacuse you are making yourself feel good, and therefore tending to your own needs - thus not being fully self less? Not that that is a bad thing at all! Go forth and be self less but don't assume that you are a martyr is all I am saying. I feel that this discussion could get a bit circular, almost like a dog trying to bite it's own tale. So let me move on...my diatribe is getting long today.

I suppose I have, rather clumsily, attempted to vent my frustrations today. Sort of throw these queries and confusions out into the void. Perhaps what has made me vent is a realization of how important it is to be true to one self. For me, beauty lies in just that. Knowing who you are, loving yourself, and surrounding yourself with people you love. Appreciating family and friends, enjoying the solidarity that exists between human beings, enjoying this planet really. I sound like I have been smoking cannabis, I assure you I haven't, and I don't mean to end this entry on a "Make love not war" sort of tone, but essentially that is what I feel today, and hope to feel always. Where is the beauty in cynicism, sarcasm, and manipulative tones? Where is the beauty in false statements, in lies, deceit, and fake characters? Beauty is that which lasts, our looks will wither, but the mark we have left on others is eternal. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sure, but by jimbo, we all know that beauty truly comes from somewhere in the depths of our souls, from our mosaic of mannerisms and unique traits. Beauty is an intangible phenomena. It doesn't come from literally our insides. I am not saying, "oh you are beautiful, I can imagine your beautiful pancreas..how lovely". No no, beauty is quite mysterious really. You can't really truly see it, you feel it. True beauty that is. It is strange that Kahlil says that beauty comes from our most important organ pumping blood around our body, keeping us alive - but lets not be so scientific - beauty does come from the heart. Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe beauty lies in our ability to find value, find mystery in what we see - Henry Miller said "The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself." Does that sound better? Who knows. Aren't they essentially saying the same thing? I am sure Miller and Kahlil would agree with one another. [Yet again I feel like the dog chasing my own tail, circular arguments flailing about.... ]

Lets leave it open... I suppose that is the point of beauty, you can't define it. I can't write what it is, I can feel it, I know you can feel it, so lets just feel...

Have a wonderful weekend dear ones who are kind enough to subject themselves to my often long winded monologues. I appreciate the encouragement and support I have received tremendously.

All my love,

Aynanita

Lights, Camera, Action! and a warm hug...

Last night I watched Colin Firth turn on the lights on Regent's Street. Before, Mr. Firth turned up, the London gospel choir, Daniel Merriweather, and the Noisettes performed. Daniel was beyond amazing! It was freezing, and his voice was incredible, I am a fan. The Noisettes were also great, although I don't know if she was singing or not. The Gospel choir, well it goes without saying, brilliant! The Lord Mayor also made a short appearance, looking sightly uncomfortable. He did, however, mention that he was off to Oslo soon to get the tree that Norway gives to the U.K. and I beamed with pride. I remember when I was little, about seven, and a group of us were selected to play the recorder whilst they sawed the beastly tree down. We played, as beautifully as one can play this hideous instrument, although I managed to mess up at one point, (on live television) and my music teacher then not only pinched me, but called me a "stupid cow". I think I stopped blowing the silly thing then and there, and have never touched one since.

I admit, that today I am a little worse for wear. After such Christmassy festivities, I decided that sharing several bottles of cava with my friends was the right way forward. I don't regret it, my body is a little bit upset with me. Alas, is there anything better than sipping champagne, well cava really, and laughing with friends? No. The problem is, that my friends in the US aren't here. My other friend in Melbourne isn't here. Why can't my closest buddies ALL be here, with me, living just around the corner, just a phone call away? This has been my dilemma for as long as I can remember. Having gone to an International School, has meant my friends are scattered all over the place. Great. I can visit them, but I don't want to. I want them here now. This Blog is dedicated to all my friends all over the world. You have made me a wiser, more aware person. You have taught me tolerance, understanding, and an ingrained understanding of how awful and unacceptable any form of discrimination or racism is. I know that International school kids can feel a sense of solidarity towards one another. It is, perhaps a form of secret understanding of how we have shared with so many children from all over, of every colour, of every religion, I hope we can all spread the love we feel for meeting new people, and learning about new cultures, welcoming everything new as interesting, and beautiful. I send you all a warm hug. A warm kiss. And another warm hug.

Love,

Aynanita