Day 37

Frijoles to Football: Gringo Getting Settled In.

I've been writing a little less lately for two reasons, I think.  First, I've just been busier.  I'm making friends, joining WAY to many soccer teams, and working long hours.  Second, I think I'm getting used to things around.  Bathroom etiquette is finally becoming less of a mystery (except that I realized people smoke WHILE doing their business, so that when I go to do mine, I'm basically being hotboxed with secondhand smoke, my favorite), people are beginning to know me (and vice versa), and I'm slowly but surely picking up on the language and culture so that I don't make as many stupid gringo errors.  That's not to say that I've completely rid myself of them, but just that they're certainly waning.  But still, there's a lot going on, and a lot that I continually laugh about, not to mention that I manage to keep making some "great" decisions...

Speaking of which, today was a beautiful day in Queretaro.  The sun was shining, there was a nice breeze, and I had time to burn before my football game (to be addressed later).  Since I work 8-6 every day during the week, I miss out on prime suntanning hours during the week, and almost sunlight in general.  When factored in with my already pale complexion, I'm basically ghost-like.  So, I figured I'd be proactive and tan a little.  You never know when an impromptu beach trip will strike (that is, when I'll be successful in launching one), so I figured I ought to be ready and pre-tan.  So, scantily clad, I laid out for a little while.  As in, maybe 30 minutes each side?  And now the backs of my thighs are BRIGHT red.  As in, it's painful to sit down and write this blog.  How much do I look forward to my desk job this week?  Less than usual.  I was wondering what grandpa would say about this, and I've decided he probably wouldn't have said anything.  He just would have laughed real hard, in my face, and that would have been enough.  Eh, he might have pointed out that I am a jackass, but I can't see him elaborating much beyond that.

So I've finally been able to have a few people over to the house for dinner and drinks.  I think they're always a little disappointed and surprised to see the that I made salsa, guacamole, and pinto beans.  For starters, those are pretty much the same things they've eaten every day of their lives, and they were probably hoping for something a little more exotic--like hamburgers or fried chicken.  But moreover, I think they're just shocked that a gringo would not only have those foods, but that he would have made them himself.  One guy actually straight up said to me: "I didn't know that gringos liked frijoles!"  Um, I'm pretty sure most don't, it's kinda just me.  After complimenting the salsa, someone else asked, "You like spicy food??"  I explained that I do, but that it makes my eyes tear up and my nose run.  That one was actually kind of embarrassing to admit, but obvious since I had just set a box of tissues on the table.  All in all though, I've been happy to host a few people over at my house and even make a few friends outside of work.  In a lot of ways, Mexico has stopped being such a novelty and is really starting to feel like home.  So, now instead of being shocked by the cleaning ladies hanging out in the guy's bathroom, I think I'm starting to get a better feel for what makes people tick around here, how they are in a lot ways just the same as me, and how they are real different in some.  It is still a little too soon to fathom the depths of the Mexican people (shocking, I know), so I'll digress and tell you about how I did my best to fulfill stereotypes in my football game this afternoon.  Yes, I said "fulfill."

We had our last game of the season today (only my second game).  We were down 2 players, so we definitely drafted one guy's girlfriend into playing with us, since she looked sorta kinda dressed for the occasion.  En route to a 13-20 loss, I managed to score 2 touchdowns and snag an interception.  While it wasn't enough to win the game, it was enough to earn an invitation to play with them for the next season.  Which starts in 3 weeks.  And, of course, because I have never said no to anyone before, why start now?  This means I'm now playing on 1 American Football team, 2 futbol teams, and then have also been invited to play on a pretty serious ultimate frisbee team.  Apparently the ultimate frisbee team has won 2 large tournaments in Mexico City?  The guy said they were "good, but not American good."  So, I'm like a gringo talisman?  Pretty sure that's actually what is going on here.  Whatever, I enjoy playing football and futbol (probably going to politely decline the ultimate invite...), so I'll take it as a compliment and enjoy the camaraderie.  Here is an actual picture from today's game:

In other news, we had a lot of very important people visit the factory last week, so everyone was real stressed out.  Except for me.  Because I didn't realize that I was supposed to be stressed out.  Probably this is one good case of when "ignorance" really was bliss, or at least not as bad as "awareness."  Whatever the case, I got to go to dinner with everyone on Thursday night.  In total, there were 3 VP's, 3 CFO's, and a handful of upper managers.  I kept laughing to myself during dinner, thinking about how I'm only a year out of college, and was sitting around a table in Mexico with the 6-10 guys who are driving this business in the Americas.  I felt a little bad about laughing at apparently nothing, until the real important people ordered a round of tequila shots.  I figured out then that most everyone else was probably laughing at something themselves.  Someone commented later that I had made a good impression on the people above me (probably not everyone I ate dinner with, but maybe one or two of the ones who mattered).  Glad to know they made their assessment and left town before I had a chance to burn my backside.

Fabio

I Can't Believe It's Not Fabio!

Last Monday I started Spanish classes with Fabio.  I got up early to shower and eat a healthy breakfast, fully aware of the mentally taxing class that lay ahead.  Honestly, I was probably just as nervous as my niece was when she started Kindergarten that same day (coincidence?).  #2 pencils sharpened and ready, I eagerly rode to work.

My Spanish teacher and I started off on the wrong foot, let's be honest.  First, he looks nothing like the other Fabio, the man who sold more margarine worldwide than Michael Jordan did Wheaties (probably).  Eh, I guess that was really the only thing I had against him, but you know how first impressions are.  He's in his mid-to-late 40's, worked a couple years in the US as an editor, before returning to Queretaro to be a freelance English teacher.  He's a nice enough guy, but I really wasn't super impressed with him until an hour into our first lesson, when he got into a verbal argument with the receptionist, who had just kicked us out of the room for no apparent reason.

I didn't exactly follow the verbal barrage that was exchanged, but I didn't need to.  You could tell by the tones that each was giving the other a shellacking.  Later, however, I was given a brief synopsis of what transpired, which was roughly that she was in fact a terrible person, and he made sure that she knew it.  In so many words.  Several times over.


Naturally, I had a lot of respect for the man after said incident.  He had valiantly fought for a legitimate classroom for which to use to teach me the many intricacies of the Spanish language.  I'm sure the other Fabio would've done the same.  And, sure, Spanish Teacher Fabio totally got worked by the receptionist, and now we've been exiled to the cafeteria which smells and is loud, but I appreciate the effort.

Since then, Fabio has totally turned out to be pretty flaky.  He skipped our second class altogether, apologizing afterward "if I had waited around" for him (I had given him 10 minutes), and then was a full 45 minutes late for the third class.  But still, I'm giving the man a mulligan, since he clearly loves what he does... or knows that he can show up late and make up for it by calling class 15 minutes early.  Whatever.  I've got work to do, and I'm learning Spanish.  I mean, there are still a lot things I have no idea how to say, but I DO know 5 different ways to tell someone their being a jackass (some ways more colorful than others).  Fabio had nothing to do with me learning those, but at least I'm learning, and that's the important thing, right?

Day 31

Long Overdue.

It's been a little while since I wrote anything, but that's only because I was busy doing totally blog-worthy things, such as:

1. becoming the token gringo in an American football league, which is ironic since I never seriously played the sport while in America (I have confirmed earlier suspicions that football is not my calling in life),
2. joining another soccer team,
3. logging a solid 45 minutes behind the wheel of a car during rush hour traffic in Queretaro (I got cut off by a teenage girl driving a Ford Aerostar),
4. attending couple bbq's/parties with my friend Alex,
5. experiencing the Mexican custom of drinking beers on the street after a long week, which was followed by 
6. moving to a friend's half-built house to finish the crate of beers while sitting on boxes of tiles, and
7. going to my first professional soccer game in Mexico: the Queretaro Gallos Blancos vs. America from Mexico City.

Needless to say, it's been a very busy 10 days or so.  Which is great, except that I woke up Monday morning thinking it was Sunday.  Kinda feels like the work week started off with an illegal blow below the belt, just saying.

So anyways, about this soccer game:  Alex and I got tickets from a friend at work and hit the stadium on Sunday afternoon.  We sat with La Resistencia, Queretaro's group of hooligans.  I was fairly warned beforehand that I should be careful/ready for them, and I mentally prepared myself as much as I could--I mean, I was ready to drink a beer and cheer loudly.  But I was completely blindsided when everyone in the stands just straight up started running towards the field, and then back up again, and then side-to-side.  They have a song which clearly tells everyone who wants to to get out of the way what's coming.  But being as that my Spanish still kinda sucks, I missed the memo.  And then got shoved in back, straight into some guy's girlfriend, at which point the guy felt the need to express his discontent for my actions.  A few minutes later, I think he realized that it was the mob of people behind me who forced the foul, and we exchanged the international dude symbol for "we're cool": we slapped five, in the bro way (part high-five, part handshake, part chest bump).


Other fun facts from the game...  I witnessed--and then later smelled--a drug deal go down, people from my section got in a fight with the police after the game, and I learned that it's pretty common for the same hooligans to fill cups full of urine and then launch it at the people further down into the stands.  VERY glad to report that I didn't learn this firsthand, only heard rumors about it this morning at the office.  La Resistencia are a little too into cheering/moshing/urinating for my taste (watching the game?), but I still think I've found a home team that I can support.

There are so many things that I have forgotten to mention, such as Fabio The Spanish Teacher.  I think the other ones may be lost forever, but let me quit this post and give Fabio his own, since he's totally deserving.

Day 20.

Survival and Silver Linings.

After a few close calls this week, we have officially closed the customer FAT (Factory Acceptance Test) without any major disasters.  Of course, Murphy's Law in effect, 1 hour before the customer was supposed to be gone for good, he read in a document that we perform Corona Partial Discharge Arc Tests on our equipment, which was in his spec all along.  A few things:

1. A customer's spec is the kind of thing that puts Mary Poppin's magic carpet bag to shame.  They seem bottomless at times.
2. A Corona Partial Discharge Arc Test is pretty much the same thing Doc Brown did in Back To The Future to get Marty back to 1985 (honestly, there are some similarities).
3. Like Doc Brown, we CAN actually do this test.  Unlike Doc Brown, however, we CHOOSE not to.

So the customer's inspector read this and remembered that they had to have it.  No way around it, it was in his spec right below "kitchen sink," and he had written confirmation that we would do it.  Balls.

Approximately 7:23pm in Wendell, NC, the project engineer got a frantic instant message from me, asking how to address this with the inspector, since it just wasn't feasible for us to perform the test on the gear at the time.  Within 20 minutes, we had found the answer.  Turns out we had taken exception specifically to test early on, and the middleman forgot to forward it to the customer... still a sticky situation, but we had performed our part faithfully.  So we escaped by the skin of our teeth, and my first FAT was a success.  We still have some items to close, but most of those I can take care of with some Photoshop'd pictures anyways, so no problem.  Just kidding, I'm no good with Photoshop, and I like my job too much for that.  But we really are in good shape.

Speaking of pictures that have not been doctored, here are a few pictures I took of a sunrise earlier this week, looking out the window of the guest room.  I think it was Monday, but I don't remember--it's been a long week already (4 days in, already worked 45 hrs).  Anyways, sunrises don't always look this good, but they're not usually much worse than this.  Saludos.

Day 18

Quick Updates.

So this week at work I'm running a customer inspection of some gear we have manufactured.  It's 19 sections of gear, full of wires, relays, breakers, and some other stuff I still haven't figured out a name for.  I've been here for 2 weeks and 2 days, a majority of which I have spent on a different product line, and they have me ushering the customer through a Factory Acceptance Test here, which feels a lot like someone hired Freddy Kruger to find the needle in the haystack.  Not that I'm biased or anything.  I mean, I love an anal retentive inspector just as much as the next guy...

Grandpa definitely would have had a good phrase to describe my role in this situation--something akin to: "He couldn't find his ass with his own two hands"--but I can't seem to recall the relevant aphorism.  Still, you get the idea.  I've got one or two more days left with the customer, depending on how tomorrow goes (not to be overly optimistic or anything, but my hopes and expectations are teetering just above "rock bottom").  You can expect to hear more about this after the inspection is done, and at that point we can qualitatively evaluate how chapped my backside is.

Switching topics though, I would like to revisit the bathroom conversation we had a while ago.  Specifically the lady who hangs out in the guys bathroom with a mop.  Yesterday I was using the stall, right?  I'll admit it: Montezuma also saw straight through the mustache and has been a vindictive presence in my Mexican life ever since.  But anyways, I'm totally in the stall, and right before I leave said stall (zipping the pants, tucking the shirt, etc), I see a mop sneak under the wall from the adjacent stall, pushing around dirty water a few inches away from where I'm currently standing/zipping/tucking.  I couldn't help but laugh a little and give the mopper my best gringo wink as I walked towards the sinks (see previous diagram... maybe Day 3?).

So today I had to use the restroom again.  Montezuma and I are currently in the process of making up and becoming friends, but I saw the mop bucket accompanied by a much younger mopper, and then quickly chose to use the stall for privacy's sake.  As I'm standing in said stall, I was thinking about my experience the day before, about seeing the mop head suddenly appear and disappear from under the dividing wall of the stall.  And then it happened again, except this time when the mop swept under wall, it actually wiped across my shoe.  I stifled a loud laugh, and maybe probably peed all over the rim of the toilet.  Let's be honest: I definitely peed all over the rim of the toilet.  Which the moppette probably had to clean up afterward.  Is that irony?  Or just terrible hygiene and manners?  Whatever the case, we smiled at each other on the way out, because she probably didn't realize I had just urinated all over the seat she had just cleaned or was about to clean.  But still, I think we shared a moment, however brief.  And next time I enter the bathroom, I suspect she'll be crouched, waiting to assault me with this same dirty mop.  We'll be sharing a different kind of moment then.

Day 15

Blown Cover, Blown Lungs, & Blown Money.

As I was walking into the office on Wednesday (dia 2 con bigote), I was introduced to a random dude.  It was done very quickly, as introductions always are, and like always, neither of us got the other's name.  He said "hello" in English, to which I replied in technically flawless Spanish... "Hola, buenos dias.  Mucho gusto."  I only understood one word of his surprised response, but I later learned that he had said, "but you look like a gringo!"  You can probably guess which word I picked out at the time.

My cover was blown.  Still no cartels to be seen (or anything else from the list, for that matter), but it was evident that the bigote wasn't the disguise I had hoped for.  Really, I only did it as a joke anyways.  Actually, really just an inside joke with myself.  Mexico, not being in on the joke, took it completely serious.  I had expected people at work to laugh at the bigote with me, but instead they complimented it and admired it.  And fair enough--the barber did a totally kick ass job on that masterpiece.  It was easily the finest mustache that I've ever sported, and maybe will ever sport.  But I never intended to keep it.  I thought me and the guys would have a couple laughs, they'd see I was a fun guy (which reminds me of a terrible mushroom joke), and then days later when it was gone, we'd be best pals.  Anyways, the mustache made me feel kind of old, and I kept getting startled when I saw myself in the mirror when I went to wash my hands.  So I shaved it off.  A few guys at work were sincerely disappointed, and a few others finally caught the joke and suggested that I come in next week wearing an Elvis wig.  Is it ironic that I'd probably instead opt for a Tom Selleck wig/mustache combo, seeing as how I just forsook the perfect Tom Selleck mustache?  For the sake of comparison, I've included the following picture:

Week two in Mexico has so far included me playing soccer twice this week.  Tuesday after work (still mustachioed, mind you), I went and played futbol rapido with a coworker's younger brothers (16 & 20 yrs old) and their friends.  We played in an oval area equivalent to a small concrete hockey rink that had recessed areas in the wall on either end for goals.  With 5 or 6 teams rotating in/out, the game was first to 2 goals or whoever was winning after 10 minutes, with a provision for pks if still tied at 10 minutes.  Winner stays and plays, loser walks.  For the record, coming from Florida where the elevation is probably just below sea level, up to Queretaro at 6000 ft in elevation, it's real difficult to breath/run/survive.  Honestly, the first time I played soccer (the week before), it felt and tasted like my lungs were bleeding.  As I'm still alive today, I assume that was more hypochondria than physical emergency or fact.  But I learned a new word at half time in that first game: vomitar.  Probably could've guessed that one.

Nonetheless, futbol rapido was fun.  We lost our first game (bad team morale?), waited around for 45 minutes shooting the Spanglish breeze, won our next game in pk's (nerves of steel), and then quickly lost the ensuing contest 2-0 (tired legs, gringo lungs).  The brothers said they would be glad to give me the prearranged ride home.  So, I spent the next 40 minutes in the backseat with 3 other guys, my head out the window, wondering when--if ever--I would be able to get out of the car and spread my legs.  I was not at all surprised that traffic on the way home was terrible, or that we made a completely unnecessary stop at a jiffy store, where only the driver got out of the car and then returned to the car empty handed.  I was surprised, however, to notice on the way home that our local mall has a large casino in its parking lot.  You'd think that with my luck I'm probably about due, right?  Yeah, and so are the Chicago Cubs.

The only other thing that happened this week is that I payed rent.  Saying it like that makes it sound very simple, but let me assure that like all processes Mexican, it's a huge hassle.  Here's the problem: I get paid in the US to my Wachovia bank account, but I have to live and pay rent in Mexico, so I have a need to turn US dollars into MXN pesos.  I can do this through an ATM, but it would take multiple visits and gross bank fees (Wachovia might translate to "blood sucking vampires" in some languages), not to mention that Wachovia keeps blocking the transfers if I try to take too much.  So, rather than make 12 visits to the ATM (literally), I chose MoneyGram to wire the money.  They have a website, they will send money to a Mexican bank in Queretaro, and the fees are reasonable.  Perfect.  Rent is due by the 5th of the month, or there is a 20% late fee.  Steep, but whatever, Mexico.

So after getting continually denied by the ATM (even after talking with Wachovia), I logged onto MoneyGram.com the day before rent was due (if you're picturing nervous sweat dripping off my mustache, then you're in the right ballpark), and sent myself the maximum amount you're allowed, twice, because rent in this house is actually really expensive.  Later that night my mustache again started sweating nervously when i got an email from MoneyGram saying I needed to call them ASAP.  Shortly thereafter, unrelated to banking issues, I shaved the mustache.

Long story short: you can't send money from the US if you're not actually physically in the US (I think my IP address probably tipped them off?), so they said I should call when I got back to the States at the end of the year...  "Why?  What good will you people be to me when I'm already back in the US?!?!"  Luckily my parents were able to help me out of a bind and act as my middle man.  After a mixup about confirmation numbers, an additional wasted trip to the bank because of a forgotten passport (FL drivers license don't suffice, apparently), the lady behind the counter did something.  She counted out 22,000+ pesos.  In front of everyone.  And then tried to give it to me.  In front of everyone.  "Eh, tienes un sobre?? (envelope)"  No.  Naked upper lip sweating profusely, I quickly pocketed the brick of cash and practically ran to the car.  That night, I paid for a month's worth of rent and car service, getting rid of most of the cash.

It was possibly the most nerve wracking few hours of my life, being forced to carry around a gross amount of cash like that.  It's official: I would never make a good drug mule.

Day 10

Pancho Eats A Burrito.

Estimados,

Today I visited the barber for the first time since I was 10 or so.  Just to be clear, I have had a few haircuts since my 11th birthday, but from family and friends mostly.  I guess since losing a decent chunk of my hairline I've done most of my own barbering.  Regardless, my friend needed a haircut, so we went to the barber he has gone to his entire life, the same barber his dad has been going to as long as anyone can remember.  The man had some serious skills.  While at it, I also opted for a shave.  Meet my cartel-proof disguise, Pancho:

Sarah, please note the smile.  I think it might have had the opposite affect.

Good news:  if you would also like to sport the season's hottest trend, all you need to tell your barber is: "Yo quiero un digote como Pancho Villa."  This literally translates "I want a mustache like Pancho Villa," and is literally what I told the man.  You might want to make sure your barber is capable of delivering first.  A sure sign that he can give you un digote magnifico is that he himself is wearing a finely manicured flavor-saver.  This was just my luck.  The trip to the Mexican barber represents a first for me in many ways:

1. First time on this trip that something went exceptionally well.
2. First time I've ever paid a barber to cut my hair (Grandpa dragged me to the barber when I was young and simply told the man: "Give him the boys' cut."  Grandpa kindly did not make me pay for the unwanted buzz-cut.)
3. First time I've ever received a shave from a straight razor.

In other news, I have quasi-successfully made myself a pot of beans.  Anyone who knows me very well knows that this means everything is going to be okay.  So, you might be asking yourself, "Why only quasi-successful, Pancho?"  I ran out of gas about 10-20 minutes before the beans were done.  It's roughly a 3 hour operation to cook a pot of pinto beans, a little longer for me because I'm around 2000m above sea level.  It's been my experience that the last 10-20 minutes are where the beans really soften up and reach burritability.  I was exhausted yesterday from a long day of xbox and napping, but I stayed up late to finish cooking the beans.  I was wasting my life away on facebook when I noticed that the burner had gone out under the beans.  When I tried to re-light it, the best I got was an unsustainable, flickering flame that danced around the burner.

So at this point I'm sweating bullets, positive that the universe is conspiring against me (which it totally was).  The hot water tank is just on the other side of the kitchen wall (and for some unfathomable reason still can't deliver hot water to the sink less than 2ft away), so I decided to see if the pilot was still lit.  Negatory.  Somewhere in the back of my mind it registered that this meant no more hot showers til I get the natural gas refilled.  Which should be about the same time pigs fly, and/or Satan is giving away free sleigh rides in a snowy hell.  Can we agree that this constitutes a literal addition of insult to injury?

Let me admit that I had assumed there was a Pan-American natural gas pipeline that fed directly into my kitchen.  Turns out I have a small tank on the top of my house, not an inter-continental funnel.  Could've sworn I saw that in the lease somewhere...

So now goal #1 is to get that stupid tank refilled, so that I can finish cooking this pot of beans to perfection (oh yeah, and take a hot shower).  I stole enough beans out of the fridge to make myself a couple burritos tonight, via the microwave, one of two appliances in my kitchen that doesn't rely on gas.  The beans are still harder than I'd like them to be, but with some homemade salsa on top, they made some darn good burritos.  Some people say that hunger is the best sauce, but I think a compelling argument could be made for some fresh salsa.

I have a big day ahead tomorrow, so buenas noches and sueños dulces.


Yours truly,
Pancho

Day 8

New Friends.

So, this morning I did the dishes from the past 3 days (bowls of cereal and the remnants of a relatively successful quesadilla experience), put some laundry in the wash, and even went so far as to sweep the floor.  I don't know where dirt and lint balls and other foreign material comes from--I'm the only one who lives here, right?--but there was a gross amount of it, so I figured I'd sweep off the few beers I had last night and improve my situation.  While sweeping, I found the following under the counter in the kitchen:

The little guy is only maybe 2 inches long, but I wasn't exactly stoked to realize that I had to add scorpions to the list of things to avoid while in Mexico.  The short list now reads as follows:

1. Drug cartels
2. Prostitutes
3. Dysentery
4. Scorpions

At the moment, the list is still very manageable.  I mean, not that I can really control the drug cartels (neither can the Mexican government though, so I don't feel too bad about this), but I am pretty positive I can avoid them easily enough.  I'm working on a plan called Operation Pancho Villa.  You can expect to hear more on this in a later blog.

But anyways, what the heck do scorpions eat??  My only information on scorpions comes from movies, where scorpions are employed as a painfully slow way to kill someone (like in a James Bond movie, though I don't remember Sean Connery or Roger Moore ever squirming to avoid a swarm of scorpions).  So, needless to say, I'm clearly well-informed on the matter.  I just don't know what scorpions eat, other than humans, I guess.  Are they attracted to peanut butter or anything?  To be perfectly candid, my biggest fear is that scorpions like boxers, or worse, boxer briefs.  THE VERY LAST THING I NEED is to get out of the shower and slip on some underoos, only to find I wasn't the first to call dibs on that particular pair.

In addition to insects, I have managed to meet a few people.  I went downtown Friday night and met a couple of British guys while at the Back Stage Bar.  Let's call them Pancho and Lefty.  I met Pancho first.  He's a South Londoner who's lived in Mexico for 2 years.  The 48 year old speaks excellent Spanish and is here writing a book, not about last year, but the year before that.  It just now struck me that he's more or less doing the same thing I am, only after he's had a full year to digest it.  Best of luck to you, Pancho.  In the course of the night I saw Pancho:

1. spray shoe deodorant on his armpits (yep), and
2. completely lose his head after he lost his table (stepped outside for 5-10 minutes, group of people sat at the empty table... honest mistake) and say the most offensive thing I know of in Spanish to the amiable, older gentleman who was working the tables.

Lefty was way nicer, despite the fact that his girlfriend confessed that she wanted to cheat on him, only an hour before I met him.  She hadn't yet cheated on him (questionable), but she totally wanted to apparently.  Super weird.  Regardless, real nice guy.  Pancho had told me to watch out for Lefty, as he could get out of control, but it was the complete opposite.  Pancho said at one point: "You know if this was England, we'd be bottling people right now!" (i.e. smashing beer bottles on people's heads), to which Lefty replied, "Oh sure."  Just then I remembered that thing that I had been planning on doing, that thing I had to go do, like, RIGHT NOW...

Also that night I met a guy who's name really is Pancho (he's the matre'di at a really good sandwich shop), who loves foreigners, but especially Americans.  Jon, who lived here before me, described him as a puppy who is constantly humping your leg.  Disturbingly accurate.  Halfway through dinner, I sent Jon a text that read: "I just had my leg humped QUITE vigorously."  Jon, with missing a beat, texted back: "You need to get a little spray bottle or a rolled newspaper and treat him like a puppy... BTW, he loves the Buffalo Bills."  This gringo just might have to invest in a fanny pack.  Pancho, before taking my order, tried to impress me with all the "slang" that his friend from Chicago taught him.  His friend is supposedly a cook at Wrigley Field (dream job), but based on the slang Pancho shared with me, I think the friend probably has a second job in the porn industry.  Almost lost my appetite.

I also met a guy named Gabriel.  His dad owns the Back Stage Bar where I met the two Brits, although Gabriel's far more mellow than either of them, and speaks English just as well.  Gabriel is someone I expect I'll hang out with from time to time while I'm here, whereas Pancho, Pancho, and Lefty...  probably not so much.


PS.  I have friends at work, promise.  Haven't really said anything much about them yet, but they're great and I'm sure I'll get to them soon.  Over and out.