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.

Day 5

Potty Talk.

Days 4 and 5 went (are going) pretty well.  I still haven't been kidnapped by any drug cartels, I have this far managed to escape Montezuma's Revenge, and I am even expanding my vocabulary (surge arrestors = apartarrayos, for instance).  Work has been busy, which is good.  I usually leave my house around 730, get to work around 8, break for a 30 minute lunch sometime after 12, and then leave work around 6.  Working a 10 hr day, I'm much happier to be moderately busy rather than bored.  I don't think I've pissed too many people off yet, but we'll see how long that lasts.

Biggest thing that happened today was that I got to go shopping for emergency cleats after work.  Since the big game is tomorrow, I naturally bought the first pair I found.  They are stiff, a little too big, but at least simple looking (i.e. black and white).  Mexico loves their bright colors, by the way.  Because I wanted a classic looking pair to wear, I went to 4 different stores and still bought the first pair I found--that weren't a florescent color or otherwise hideous.  I also bought an emergency soccer ball.  This was completely unnecessary, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered one of the many lessons my grandfather taught me: "What's money for if it wasn't meant for spending?!"  He probably managed to squeeze a couple GD's and SOB's into that lesson, but I can't remember where they fit.  Still, he was right.  And now I have a soccer ball to kick around in the 5'x15' space in my backyard.  One side of that space is the entrance to the dining room, for which the entire length of that wall is glass.  Clearly a winning combination.  I'm tempted to expound on other lessons grandpa taught me (each at least as good as that, if not better), but I'm sure I'll have many more opportunities in the coming months to draw upon his tender truisms.

So, I have to mention something that isn't necessarily exclusive to Mexico, but has rather been germane to my experience as a whole in Latin America: toilet paper does not get flushed down the toilet.  Instead, they collect it in a trash can next to the toilet.  As an engineer, this is honestly an outrage!  HOW CAN YOU DESIGN A SEWER SYSTEM TO HANDLE TURDS, BUT NOT TISSUE PAPER?!  Honestly, how is that freaking possible??  There's nothing more disheartening that walking into a stall to relieve yourself, only to see a literal pile of shitty paper next to the toilet.  More often than not, said pile is accompanied by a small band of flies.  Fantastic.  And let me add a few more details, even though they are disgusting:

1.  Using the restroom at the end of the day (after an accumulation of toilet paper has occurred) is ill advised.
2.  Since there is often a mound of toilet paper reaching past the brim of the square trash can, I have discovered that Mexicans also suffer from eating Mexican food.

I had a traumatic experience when I visited Mexico for the first time, the summer after my 9th grade.  There was a group of 8 of us from church staying in a tiny village.  Towards the end of our stay in the village, I forgot about the toilet paper rule and accidentally flushed a few squares (flushed = pouring a bucket of water into the toilet so it all went away).  I realized my mistake before I flushed, but momma didn't raise no fool, and I sure as hell didn't pick the soggy TP out of that toilet.  I was happy to see those white squares float away when I "flushed."  The next kid to use the toilet reported after his visit that the toilet wouldn't flush (yes, you can use your imagination... you're on the right track), and I made the guilty confession of having accidentally flushed 3 neatly folded squares of TP.  I accepted the plunger when it held out to me, and spent the next 3 hours plunging the toilet, the details of which I'll spare.  In summary, however, I think it is important to mention a few things (which came to light at the end of the 3rd hour).  First, my friend hadn't gone #2 the whole time we were there, so the toilet had experienced a solid 9-10 days worth of waste during his visit.  Second, some men decided to investigate the plumbing (while I continued plunging), and found that a tree's roots had grown through the pipe to the septic tank, effectively capping off the drain.  All that to say, I'm a little sensitive about the subject.

But my favorite part of all--and this only took 2 or 3 visits to kinda get used to, surprisingly--is that a majority of the times I have entered the men's room, there is a woman mopping the floors.  She's not mopping the entrance to the restroom, nor did she put up an inconvenient sign to close the bathroom while she mopped.  No, instead she is mopping while I, and however many other dudes, use the facilities.  Like, real close to all the action. Below is a scenario that actually happened today while I was in the bathroom.  And it's really not that big of a deal, but it's still just so strange to see. 

So, I came into the bathroom, nearly run into the lady (X) mopping the floor (felt guilty for tracking dirt across her freshly mopped floor), and sheepishly entered stall #4.  For no particular reason.  Anyways, after some time passed, I went out to wash my hands.  And I realize there's a man (Y) using urinal C.  Here's what it looked like, complete with the mopper's line of sight:

In all fairness, the woman mopping the floor wasn't:

1.  a pervert (as far as I could tell),
2.  attractive (I could tell), or
3.  young (60+ years old?).

It's my guess that somewhere among those three factors, it becomes a non-issue that a woman may or may not be mopping between your legs while you stand at the urinal.  If she was to catch a glimpse of "anything," it's unlikely that it would be the first she had ever seen, and she actually seemed downright disinterested in seeing.  Although, disinterest could have had more to do with the several trash cans full of used toilet paper, and/or the cigarette smoke wafting in through the open window (adding insult to injury).  Whatever the case, everyone else seemed to be totally cool with it, and not wanting to be a total freaking gringo (probably most closely translated as "square"), I went along with it, though opting for a stall and some privacy.  When in Rome... it's important to remember Rome wasn't built in a day.  Maybe tomorrow I'll chance the urinal.  Probably not.

Day 3

First Day On The Job.

My first day on the job in Queretaro... I had a few butterflies, but the silver lining to being a gringo is that a majority of the people have low expectations. Like, really low expectations, as in they are surprised I can tie my own shoes. Siemens, in an effort to salvage my dignity for me, has mandated that I take Spanish lessons. So, today I contacted a Spanish instructor. I have chosen this one out of all the possible Spanish instructors, because his name is Fabio. I think anyone reading this will understand my reasoning here. This is probably a good point to point out that Blaise Pascal once said: "The heart has its reasons, that reason does not know."

Anyways, in addition to hiring Fabio (instructions to start next week or the one after), today went pretty well. I managed to smooth out the issue with the company phone, and, con suerte, I might even get to the grocery store later and expand on my guacamole-only diet. The best part of my day so far was on the ride to work when I was informed that I have a soccer game Thursday night. Awesome, I can definitely deal with that. My soccer cleats (and xbox!) were supposed to be on their way down, but apparently it costs $600 to ship a load of crap to Mejico? Plan B is still in the works, but I will probably stop by Sports Authority and pick up some emergency cleats for the game on Thursday...

Back home now, after hitting up Wal-Mart for some more groceries, though no Sports Authority for emergency cleats. I have successfully expanded my drink options from only Dos Equis to now include: Modelo Especial, water, and orange juice. The stove in my kitchen doesn't work (probably operator error), so I cooked half of a frozen pizza in the microwave oven, and then attempted a quesadilla in the quesadilla maker that was left here by the previous tenant. The pizza was fine, but the quesadisaster... I just finished cleaning up.

I intend to do the dishes, go back and blog about Day 2 (yes, I'm doing these out of order), and then slip into a comfortable coma. For now, let me leave you with...

Important lesson for the day: Mexicans don't really care about cheddar cheese. This breaks my heart. And blows my mind. I decided not to bother arguing for the merits of cheddar cheese over other cheeses, but let me say this: it is hypocritical to have a country so obsessed with cheese, and to not at least offer a small spread of cheddar. There, I said it.