Crazy?

While marching back from recess today, I found myself singing "I've Been Working on the Railroad" while eating a piece of pumpkin pie. One of my girls asked, "Miss, are you crazy?"

"Just a little," I said.

Fire!

I'm falling in love with Mexico, one three-day weekend at a time. Just two weeks after our last one, we had another long weekend. We opted for a prettier beach this time: Acapulco.

Five of us squeezed into Ivan's sport's car for the five-hour drive. We emerged in the beach-town heat sweaty and anxious to change out of our winter Puebla clothes. Nothing is as simple as it sounds down here, though.

Our hotel was right on the water, a beautiful view. It had two elevators when both of them happened to be running at the same time. Our room number was 2004. We took one look at the crowds of sandy beach-goers waiting in front of the elevator doors and headed straight for the stairs. The stairs only led us up one floor, though, and we couldn't find any more flights. Maybe, we thought, our room was on the second floor. We asked. No, the 20th.

Despite our five hours in the car, 20 flights on stairs didn't sound appealing. We waited at the elevator for a while, but it never came. Fine, we'd take the stairs. Unfortunately, we still couldn't find the stairs. We searched for a while until we found one narrow flight at the back of the building. We took it and were now stuck on the third floor. This was going to be a long trip.

Eventually, we figured out that after each flight, we had to circle the inside of the building once to find the next flight. We sped up after that. As fast as one can speed up when ascending 20 flights of stairs. We found our room and collapsed on the beds.

We took the elevator later that evening, but it proved nearly as painful as the stairs. Unbearably hot, it inched its way upward and stopped at nearly every floor. It seems we weren't the only ones who had pressed the button and then abandoned it in impatience.

The next morning, I chose to take the 20 flights of stairs instead of waiting with all of the other swimsuit-bedecked vacationers. As I was circling, I wondered what the hotel would do in case of a fire. I couldn't imagine all of the occupants squeezing down those narrow staircases in panic.

That evening, we were in our hotel room getting ready to go out when we heard a loud buzzing that I remembered all too well from my college days. We stood staring at a few minutes, willing the alarm into silence. It continued. "Should we go down," we wondered. "It's not really a fire, is it? The facilities couldn't handle that." We opened our door and poked our heads out. Nearly every other occupant of the floor was doing the same thing. We all shrugged at each other and went back into our rooms. Still, the alarm refused to quiet. We stepped into the hall again. And back into the room. Eventually the alarm ended.

By the way, we had a great time on the beach.

Identity crisis

My left foot is claustrophobic. But only at night. Come ten or so each night, my left foot begins longing for freedom from its sock, and I have no control over it for the next ten hours. I’ve tried sleeping with both socks on during cold nights, but I always wake up with a bare left foot in the morning. My left foot is a stubborn master. Over the years, that foot’s strange craving has become a sort of security blanket. Regardless of where I am in the world, regardless of what is happening in my universe, I know that come nighttime, my left sock will be discarded.

This week, though, I faced a crisis that sent me reeling and pondering life’s deeper questions. I was lying in bed, left sock off and right sock on, when both of my feet sent up a unprecedented message: They wanted the left sock on and the right sock off. I was thrust into an identity crisis deeper than any I’d yet experienced. Who was I? What was my purpose in life? Where was I? If my left-foot behavior wasn’t consistent, who and what could I really depend on?

I had to make a choice. I’d given up fighting my left foot years ago, but now it was asking for something entirely new. I didn’t think I could handle that type of inconsistency. I refused. As intense as the urgings were, I kept my right sock on and my left sock off. I’ve changed jobs and countries this year. I’ve met new people and adjusted to new foods. I have to have stability in at least one thing. The following night my feet also made the same unusual request, and again, I refused. My sternness paid off: By the third night, my feet were back to their usual desires. Now, I am sitting at my computer, a fluffy sock on my right foot and my left foot bare.

I've got the power

I wouldn't consider myself particularly power-hungry, but some days, the rush that comes with controlling 53 eight-year-olds is just too much to resist.

My first group or students was well-behaved for most of the morning. Walking back from P.E., they began playing, though. I stopped the line about three times, and their behavior never changed. Line behavior isn't stressed too heavily in this school, but I still prefer my students to walk quietly and without playing. When we got back to the classroom, I painted on my upset-teacher face and told the kids to sit down immediately. "Are you angry?" one girl asked. "Yes, sit down." I love teaching.

I sentenced them to "lunch detention." They eat in the classroom, and I usually allow them to talk and even get up and play when they are finished eating. During lunch detention, though, they eat in silence and they stay seated until the bell rings for recess. I told them that for each sound I heard, I would keep them in an extra minute after the bell. Four rebels ventured a word. Four minutes. The bell rang, classmates ran screaming past our door, and my students sat, looking miserable. After their minutes of imprisonment were completed, I sternly released them, table-by-table. When I finally closed the door behind the last repentant face, I couldn't help but grin. I love teaching.

My second group was in a talkative mood. I warned them that I was going to finish what I had planned, regardless of how long it took. The bell rang, and I told them to sit down. They still had to write definitions to their seven vocabulary words. 26 horrified students gaped at me. "But Miss, I have a celebration for my grandmother." "But Miss, I have to go to soccer practice." "Then you'd better get to work and stop wasting your time arguing," I said. I love teaching.

I told them that when they were finished they could just give me their books and I would put them back in numerical order for them, since "I'm the best teacher ever." They heartily agreed. "Miss Courtney, you're the /best/ teacher I ever had!"

Perhaps it's no coincidence that Snap's "The Power" has been stuck in my head all day.

Fighting the clock

I stress about arriving to standardized tests, the way most people stress about catching a flight. I'd prefer to be nice and early, leaving plenty of time for sitting in the waiting room. Those of you like me, be advised: Don't take a literature GRE test in Mexico.

My test was scheduled for 9 a.m. on Saturday morning. My alarm sounded at 6:30, and I jumped on the mad train ride that I hoped would end with me sitting in a desk at the UDLA in Cholula.

I opted against a bus, since I didn't know the route to the UDLA and didn't want to risk anything. Instead, I called a taxi. Unfortunately, the taxi company didn't answer. So I went to the nearest major road and flagged one down. The driver offered me an exorbitant price, but I was too anxious to arrive at the test to argue. I climbed in the cab.

Cholula was not to be our first stop, however. My driver told me he didn't have change, and unless I had the exact amount, we'd have to stop at a convenience store. We pulled into one, but it wasn't open, and gas pumpers refused to make change. Next we tried an Oxxo, but gas stations aren't exactly loaded with cash early in the morning. The taxi driver said he'd take care of it. He left his cab parked in the middle of the parking lot, still running. Soon, cars began to pile up behind me. I sat in the smelly cab, wondering where the driver had gone with my money, listening to the horns honking behind me, and reassuring myself with the fact that his cab probably cost more than 500 pesos. Eventually, he returned with the change.

We were finally on our way to Cholula. I told him I had to be there by 8:10. I was glad I left so much extra time; the campus was much bigger than I had anticipated. He dropped me off near what I thought was my building. It was empty. A lone man directed me to the business office. There, I was greeted by a crowd of students wearing "STAFF" name tags. That looked promising. None of them had heard of a GRE test, though. They pointed me to another building. I found myself in a computer lab filled with costumed college kids. I was skeptical. Most of them had no idea what I was talking about, but I eventually found a ghost who was knowledgeable. I walked until I found the "orange building" and saw a piece of computer paper with the letters "GRE" printed on it.

I needn't have worried about being late. This is Mexico, after all, and even when administering an American exam, it cannot act contrary to its nature. We stood outside in the cold until everyone had arrived. We didn't begin testing until 9:15. Our proctor solved that small problem by changing the room's clock back to 9. There, right on schedule.

Halloween in Veracruz

Thanks to Halloween and Mexico's inclination to party, I had a three-day weekend. My roommate and I spent it in Veracruz.

We drank coffee made from this contraption:


We ate fresh fish prepared right in front of us:


We walked along the beach:


And we watched a Dia de los Muertos parade. Michael Jackson was everywhere. These two were my favorites: