Mullahs of the Mission

Ten days ago I was soaking up the cultural and culinary offerings of Mexico City.  Since returning, the reality of my unemployment has hit.  I awake every morning to a blank slate.  I can exercise, or not.  I can fill my day with chores, or not. I can network with colleagues and potential clients over breakfast, lunch or cocktails, or not.  Today, my focus has been on exceeding my running distance in Golden Gate Park (up and back without stopping!), delivering a donation of clothing to the thrift store, and finding a decent place to write.  

At the moment I am in the midst of a Goldilocks-like  quest to find a cafe in the Mission District where I can comfortably create.  This morning I checked out Ritual on Valencia and 22nd.  I liked the coffee and the instrumental loungey background music, but the space was a bit drafty and cold.  I returned to Lundys Lane and attempted to write in the studio, or as I am going to start calling it "Ridgeback Cavern."  Surrounded by three occasionally fussy but mostly dozing dogs was conducive to napping, but not to writing.  At the moment I am at Four Barrel at Valencia & 15th.  It's still a bit drafty and cold, even though the sun is shining.  The chairs are flat, wooden and uncomfortable and I am sharing a table with two chatty women who are alternating between their conversation and texting a recently pregnant friend.  The music is a bit loud and grungy and includes vocals.  The coffee seemed watery. This one is definitely not "Just Right."  My search will continue.

As I sit here, it is impossible not to notice that one, by one, there has been a steady stream of fully bearded men in their twenties and early thirties.  More than half of the men fit this profile. The same is true at Ritual.   Their haircuts are relatively trimmed-- they are not going for a hippy look -- but their beards are full, bushy and flowing.  No goatees or flavor savors.  A disturbing number of the beards have the unfortunate gnarly appearance of facial pubic hair.  Many of them are wearing stocking hats.  They look like members of the Taliban, only hipper.  

As I sit here with my relatively new full beard, I am faced with a crisis of personal aesthetics.  I have never been one to attempt coolness, but I wonder if my decision to grow a beard was a subconscious effort to appear younger and hipper?  Given the distinctly silvery nature of the beard, one could argue that I look older, but maybe my inner hipster wanted to fit into the cafe culture of the Mission.  With this realization, maybe my anti-hipster instincts are going to lead me to reduce the beard to a goatee.   Or maybe remove it completely and grow my remaining locks into a flowing Ben Franklin.  (Not going to happen.)  Or maybe, I'll continue to tour cafes and just sit back and enjoy the show.  A man just walked in with a heavily waxed handle bar moustache...

I may not be cool enough for this town

This morning I moved from my apartment to the Hotel Condesa DF, an Australian-owned, impeccably deigned property in an old belle époque building across from the Parque Espana in my favorite neighborhood, La Condesa. Thanks to ten nights of business and personal travel, my night here at the ultra chic Condesa DF is 100% free. I am currently sitting at the hotel bar situated at the edge of the hotel's open atrium. I am currently surrounded by some of the best looking and best dressed, in a casual way, people to whom I have ever had proximity. Since 1:00pm the hotel's open air bar, on the 4th floor terrace with a view to the tree-lined hipness of La Condesa, has been hopping with youNg, gorgeous locals. The pounding music interrupted my siesta plans, but encouraged me to venture to the downstairs bar where everyone took refuge after a sudden rain shower. I feel exceedingly old and gringo, but thanks to a beer, spiced peanuts, and a shot of tequila anejo, I am very content.

Content. Contento. Enchanted. Encanto. These are the words that have entered my vocabulary the past week.

Last night, I had an echanating experience at a restaurant called Lampuga (Mahi Mahi). In contrast to today's overwhelm of hipness, last night was like being transported back to some bygone age. My friend David surprised and delighted me by coming down From Los Angeles for a quick break this week. On the recommendation of the web site Chilango.com we wandered our way to Lampuga. We ate very well. Grilled octopus for a starter. A fine bottle of Syrah from Argentina. Filet mignon with Roquefort sauce for me, a beautiful piece oF grilled fish for David. For desert, coconut flan and apple tart, topped off with aged rum and port. The food was exquisite. The service was warm, inviting and attentive. All of this would have made a great evening, but the kicker was that for the nearly three hours that we sat at our table, we were entertained by a quartet of musicians: a singer who reminded me of a Latina Adele, a talented (and cute) bass player, a guitarist, and a virtuoso on the contralto sax and flute. They performed a mix of bossa nova, classic salsa, Cubans, and jazz. And they NEVER stopped.
I have paid to hear music with my dinner in the United States, but never have I had such a beautifully relaxed musical dining experience. It might have been an experience that was easily accessible in some bygone day, but these days I think I need to cross a border to have this anachronistic adventure. Last night, I might have been a fuddy duddy, but I felt cool.

Un viaje con Bea la Fea (a journey with Ugly Betty)

Instead of instruction, for my final day of class the school planned for us to go to Xochimilco, the maze of gardens and canals in the south of the City.  Maria Luisa stayed at the school for students who wanted to stay in the classroom and  Hector called in sick, so Maria Luisa recruited Aurora, a substitute teacher and university student.  Alessandro, Malcolm, Charley and I waited patiently in a classroom, chatting with Maria Luisa when the 4' 11" Aurora made her entrance.  I had to suppress my giggles.  Either Aurora had deliberately studied the personal style of America Ferrara's Ugly Betty character, or the Ugly Betty character was based on Aurora.  Her hair was clean but flat, a little past shoulder length with a well-defined and probably-too-short bangs, accentuated by purple framed glasses.  Her smile sparkled with a full rack of silver braces.  She wore a lavender down vest, over a turquoise t-shirt, accentuated by a hot pink wool scarf, tightly wrapped around her neck.  On her back was a small backpack with a Mexican version of Hello Kitty embroidered on the front.  On her feet were white track shoes with lavender racing stripes.  You could tell she was thrilled with her assignment for the day.  Her enthusiasm was like that of a kid sister tagging along with her brothers for a day trip.  I  wanted to hug her.  I also wanted to ask her if she knew that she looked like Ugly Betty, but I am happy to report that I was able to control that impulse for the whole day.

Taking a field trip with four men -- an Italian, a Brit, and two gay Americans -- may have been a new experience for Aurora, but she handled it well.  She took charge and guided us through the first decision, whether to take a forty minute cab ride or the Metro.  We decided on the Metro (subway).  Two hours later, we arrived at Xochimilco.  The ride demonstrated the absolutely vast nature of this city.  After a transfer, we rode to the end of one Metro line, then transfered to a light rail line.  We rode through the unbroken urban-ness of Mexico City, bustling with cars, people, billboards, and the occasional Walmart.  The walk through Xochimilco to the canals reminded me a bit of my experience in smaller cities of Mexico, like Oaxaca.  No building was more than two stories high and a uniquely Mexican smell of dust, diesel, ripening fruit and burning wood was prevalent.

The embarcadero (launch) for the canal was packed with dozens of wide, covered flat-bottomed gondolas called platineras, each topped with an arc like sign with its name, always a female.  We were guided to our platinera, Maria Elena, took our seats and faced our second decision: how much were we willing to pay for a trip around the canal?  Maria Luisa had told us not to pay more than 400 pesos for the whole boat, about 30 dollars.  The opening bid of the operator was 500 pesos per person, 800 for the full tour.  Some people treat bartering & haggling like a game.  It makes me embarrassed and anxious.  I decided to keep my mouth shut, hoping that Aurora might take over.  Despite the fact that she was our guide and obviously had the more fluent language skills, the operator, in what was likely a combination of typical machismo and experience of dealing with tourists, ignored Aurora completely.  This worked out well for us, since she was willing to cave at 350 pesos per person.  Fortunately, Malcolm would have none of it.  He organized us to initiate an exit of protest from the boat that moved the operator to 250 pesos.  At that point, I stepped in, asserting that I only had two days left in Mexico and did not want to spend more time haggling over the price.  The group relented, we paid the 250 and embarked on our tour of the canals of Xochimilco.

The canals are a remnant of how much of Mexico City was organized in Aztec times when the Valle de Mexico was a series of large lakes, connected by causeways and organized around man-made islands where people lived and farmed.  There are floating mariachis and marimba bands.  There are floating vendors of pulque, beer, tacos and tchotchkes.   There are islands with nurseries selling roses, poinsettias, and lilies of all colors and sizes.  There is an island (la isla de munecas) where for years people have attached dolls to trees in a creepy display that relates to the song, la llorona, which tells of a ghost searching for her murdered children. On paper, I could make Xochimilco sound compelling and romantic.  In reality, it's a kitschy tourist trap.  A tourist trap mostly for locals, but a trap nonetheless.  As 
a group, we embraced the kitsch.  Allesandro bought a muneca (doll).  Charley paid mariachis for songs and then sang along, in full voice.  We all took our turn at navigating the palinera with the long tree branch used to push the boat through the canals. Aurora got a little tipsy on pulque and beer.  And maybe I did too.  I dared Malcolm that I would buy him a poncho with an embroidered Mexican flag if he could haggle the vendor down from 800 pesos to 300 provided that he wore it the rest of the day.  30 minutes later, Malcom was wearing the poncho (and continued to on the subway home).

By the time we returned to the embarcadero, all of us were happy for the experience, but relieved that it was over.  We grabbed lunch at the vast food market, where I enjoyed a huarache (grilled tortilla shaped like a sandal) with huitlacoche (corn fungus).  Standing in the crowded trains, slowly, but surely, a warned side effect of pulque began to emerge.  I wish the side effect was intense hallucinations, but it was intestinal bloating.  A living organism, the pulque continued to ferment in my stomach.  By the time I arrived at my apartment, I felt like I was 5 months pregnant, just starting to show. I was happy to be home.

Building confidence

Every morning before class, I walk out of my neighborhood, la Zona Rosa, across a hectic intersection of Sevilla and Chapultapec, and meander my way through Colonia Condesa before arriving at class.  Along the way I pass a dizzying array of architectural diversity.  Sleek modern towers.  Ugly concrete boxes filled with offices.  Former mansions with fading belle epoque facades.  Buildings that tilt slightly from sinking land.  Classic mid century modern apartment buildings.  Sexy newly constructed condominium towers.  As a fan of architecture, my morning walk, as well as my daily wanderings, have been filled with visual delights.   Yesterday afternoon, I added a visit to the museo de arte moderno to my afternoon tour and much to my delight there were exhibits of two Mexican architectural masters, Felix Candela and Max Cetto.

Check out: http://mam.org.mx/exposiciones/actuales.

Candela is famous for dramatic, elyptical structures.  Cetto  designed, among other things, breathtaking homes that rival Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling Water.  He was also born in Frankfurt and had to flee Nazi Germany after writing Himmler a letter criticizing the Reich.   His work made me want to transport myself magically inside the photographs and models, including an exquisite home built directly over a lake, with the lake fully integrated into the design.

Typically when I travel, I am in a bit of a desperate vacation mode, attempting to squeeze as much relaxation, enjoyment, entertainment, and stimulation as I can out of each experience.  This past week in Mexico City, not book-ended by 10 hour work days, has been a revelatory experience.  Although the trip is finite, I am not rushing about trying to take it all in.  Having an afternoon to do nothing more than revel in modern architecture truly moved me.  As I develop a new life outside of a full-time permanent job, I need to remember and tap into this mood and pace.  I don't think I need to be immersed in another culture to find it.  I just need to find it in myself.

Just call me the bug eater

I had my Andrew Zimmerman moment today.   Today at lunch we all went next door to the little Oaxacan restaurant for tacos de chapulines (dried, spiced grasshoppers).  Our teacher, Maria Luisa, shared one taco with Malcom (the Brit) and Halvard.  Alessandro, Charley and I each ordered our own.  Monique, the Australian and Bridget (new today from London)  both bailed.

To the giggles of Maria Luisa, when the tacos arrived the other men groaned, laughed nervously and muttered obscenities.  I, on the other hand, was starving.  I was half way through my taco before the others could open their tortillas to see the dozens of crickets inside.  As they squealed like high school sophomores struggling with frog dissection, I calmly added more guacamole and salsa to my second and third mouthfuls.  As they collectively strategized about how to take the first bite, "Just don't look at it...add more salsa," I sipped my beer, and struggled to slow down my usual wolfing tendencies.  Maria Luisa attempted to coach them through it, "It's like salted peanuts...or crunchy spicy shrimp..." One by one, they began to tackle the taco more confidently, but their faces showed their internal struggle.  Charley ate deliberately, but when a chapuline slipped out of the taco and fell on the table next to his plate, he visibly shuddered.  Halvar sucked his third of a taco down in one bite and quickly washed it down with a long swill of beer.  Malcolm nibbled slowly, like a child struggling to eat a piece of broccoli.  Alessandro made a valiant effort, but politely left about 40% of his taco on the plate.  By the time the waiter came to clear our plates and make way for main dishes, my plate was licked clean.  To my good fortune, before clearing Alessandro's plate,  the waiter asked, "Doesn't anyone want to eat these chapulines?"  I was quick to reply, "Absolutamente!"

By the end of the meal, I had probably consumed close to 100 grasshoppers.  That's 200 grasshopper antennas, and 600 grasshopper legs.  I think I also gained a little more respect from Maria Luisa.

A lot like Paris, only with taquerias

Our North American stereotypes of Mexico City are daunting.  Overwhelming poverty.  Air pollution that makes your eyes sting and lungs heart.  Traffic congestion that rivals Mumbai.  Police who demand bribes to avoid jay walking tickets.  Buildings crumbling from neglect, earthquakes, and bad zoning laws.  Rampant street crime and random kidnappings.  Narcoterrorists waiting to gun you down at every corner.

In my previous visits, I have learned to dismiss those negative visions of Mexico City.  Instead, I have developed a deep appreciation for a city filled with some of the best museums in the world, public art around every corner, tranquil parks and plazas lined with cafes, broad boulevards that rival the Champs Elysees, and architecture that is a unique mix of colonial beauty, art deco majesty, and contemporary design.  It's a lot like Paris, only with taquerias.

On this trip, I have been surprised by what is undoubtedly becoming the new, emerging Mexico City.  It is not just that it is a vibrant cultural center and an economic engine for Latin America (the eighth richest city in the world), Mexico City is also...

> Fitness-crazed.
On Sunday, they close the Paseo de la Reforma, the broad boulevard that bisects the center of the City, and allow runners and bicyclists full access.  At every intersection there are ad hoc bike shops, refreshment stations, and free yoga classes.  This morning on my way to class through the Parque Mexico, there was a fully equipped free access outdoor gym, including elyptical machines, filled with people of all shapes, ages and sizes.  Can you imagine a free elyptical machine in the middle of Dolores Park?  

> More gay male-friendly than San Francisco.  
I have seen more public affection between men in the past four days than I ever see in San Francisco.  Young men holding hands casually as they walk down the street.  Older men kissing sweetly in the window of restaurants.  A man stretched out on a park bench, his head resting on his lover's lap.  It's not just in a gay ghetto.  There are gay bars, adjacent to straight bars, with people blending together as they pour out on to the street. Same sex marriage is legal in Mexico City and discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity is strictly banned.  In fact, public establishments must post the anti-discrimination law at their entrances.  Clearly the political change has been lock-step with a broader cultural change.

> Filled with very well-behaved, well-cared for dogs.  
This morning in the Parque Espana I happened upon a dog park filled with dogs, some playing together, some patiently sitting on the side watching the action.  On Sunday, every fourth person on a bike or jogging had a dog in tow.  Like in France, there are dogs in restaurants and cafes.  I have yet to see a single stray dog or (my favorite) hippy street person with a golden retriever with a bandana collar.

> Moving forward, together.
I admit that I have a limited, subjective, tourist-eye view of the sociology of the city, but its gestalt is cooperative, respectful, and forward thinking.  In the US cities of which I am most familiar (NYC, DC, SF), I always sense mistrust, tension and anxiety.  We don't invest in public space or the collective well-being.  We are in it for ourselves and it shows.  Our nation's politics reflect this mood, as anything initiated for the public good is considered flawed or suspect.  Here in Mexico, despite the intensity and chaos, there is a flow of energy between people that just seems more agreeable.  Even when cars ignore red lights and narrowly avoid pedestrians.  Even when you see people crammed like sardines into the Metrobus.  Even when they are vehemently protesting corruption in the government.


Today in class, Hector taught us some new ways to call someone an asshole.  He described that a stereotypical North American approach to a cancelled medical appointment or a disappointing meal in a restaurant would be to complain and demand a refund.  He warned us that to engage in such behavior in
Mexico would risk being called a "mamon." In contrast, he said that the Mexican approach to such situations is essentially to roll with it, "Ni modo, ni hablar."  Essentially, "don't worry about it." Maybe we in the US should adopt a bit of that approach.  Otherwise, we risk becoming nothing but a nation of mamons.

Do you believe in God and the after life?

There I was, gun to my head, and that was the question posed to me.  If I told my truth, would I face a horrible fate?  If I lied and said I believed, would it even make a difference?  And by the way, what kind of question is that for an Advanced Beginner conversation class?  I decided to tell my truth, by saying with irony, "One life is enough."  And then I sputtered on about how we're all energy, and after we die our energy continues in the universe among those who know and love us.  I was second to last among the six students.  Charley, from New York, spoke about how he loved going to church for the music but did not  believe in God.  Maria Luisa, the teacher, summarized the theological discussion by letting the class know that she was very Catholic and believed in heaven, hell, and purgatory for the sinners.

Sinners like my classmates.  Halvard, the Norwegian, answered the question with an expected level of Scandanavian skepticism.  Monique, from Sydney, told the class that she believes in "algo" (something) but not God.  Then continued to share her belief that she lived in ancient Rome in a past life.  Malcom, the Brit, did not even know who Adam & Eve were.  Not sure if biblical ignorance of that level is something to cheer, but go Malcom!  Only Alessandro, from Rome, professed to being Catholic, but his was definitely a cafeteria cultural catholicism.

I tried to make up for my atheism by answering Lucia's question about whether people liked tequila with an enthusiastic, "Absolutamente, tengo un collecion de tequila anejo." (Absolutely! I have a collection of aged tequila.)  Rather than winning her over, she appeared to roll her eyes as if she was thinking, "Of course you do you pretentious gringo heathen."

My greatest sin, however, was probably that I answered the question, "Do you like to dance?" with a definitive, "No me gusta bailar."  Lucia looked at me like I had just said, "I enjoy oral sex with aardvarks."  Even Malcolm, recently released from the British navy, professed to enjoy dancing, provided that he was drunk.  Halvar said that if he had drugs he enjoyed dancing.  Charley actually demonstrated the cumbia to the class.  Apparently, Lucia enjoys taking her classes out dancing.  She said, "I like to take my classes dancing.  Hector, the grammar teacher likes to take classes out to pulque bars.  I guess you won't be coming with us."

Fine with me.  I have always wanted to go to a pulque bar.  Besides, Hector is a very cute, very hip young man, with pierced ears and a pierced nose.  No doubt he knows the best pulque bars.  (Pulque is a drink dating back to Azetcs made of fermented agave.)

How do you say vertigo in Mexican?

My first of nine mornings in Mexico City started with the discovery, one block away, of a locally owned coffee place that not only was not Starbucks (they are everywhere), the coffee was great.  I may have butchered the colloquial way to say "small latte with an extra shot of espresso" but I got my point across.  I sipped the coffee on my way to El Bosque de Chapultapec, the massive urban park that houses four major museums, a zoo, and more chicharones vendors per hectare than any place on earth.   Relying on my map and my memory, I headed down Paseo de la Reforma to what I remembered to be a grand entrance to the park, the monument of Los Ninos Heroes.

Unfortunately, where I thought the entrance should be was a massive construction project.  The only way into the park appeared to be over a temporary pedestrian bridge made of aluminum framing wrapped in yellow warning tape.  Dozens of locals, including women carrying large baskets, young children in various states of running, and elderly people with canes, were casually making their way up the stairs, over the 50 foot bridge, and down to the other side where they could wind their way to the park entrance.  I anticipated no problem.  Then I started up the staircase.  The whole structure appeared to shake with each of my huge gringo steps.  The railings, though likely to code in Mexico, appeared to be six inches below my high center of gravity.  Slowly, carefully, grabbing on to the railing with each step, I made it to the top.  Next, the bridge, created from a series of sections of mesh metal, to enable a nice view of the roaring traffic below.  As old women balancing laundry baskets on their heads skipped over the bridge, I took deliberate, slow steps, trying not to look down, which was difficult given that I had to make sure there were no gaps in the sections before I took my next step.  When I got to the middle, as a twelve year old skateboarded by me, I froze.  It reminded me of a panic attack I had traversing a 18 inch path between two volcano craters in Costa Rica.  That time, I made it across by scootching on my butt.  This time scootching was not an option.  I tried to breathe my way through it.  Deep breaths, then a tentative move of my left arm over my right while gripping the railing and a slide of one foot over a few inches.  Then repeat.  The mocking glance of a pregnant woman with two young children in tow did not help (they were small enough to slip right through the gap of the railing, what if one of them slipped...)  Perhaps the transfer of my anxiety to the children caused a shift, but after they passed me, I started walking gingerly, but facing forward, and made my way to the base of the opposite stairs.

In some masochistic twist of fate, the past two days I have continued to find myself at the peril of my vertigo.  It's hit me while riding the glass elevator to the top of the Monument de la Revolucion, traversing another pedestrian bridge (this time a permanent one) over a highway, and staring at the Rufino Tamayo mural across the four story atrium of the Palacio de Bellas Artes.  It's almost like I forget that I have a fear of heights, and then, duh, I find myself at the top of a 20 story monument in a cold paralyzing sweat.  Or maybe, in a dictionary definition display of stupidity, I start the climb thinking this time will be different.  Whatever my subconscious motivations, one thing is true, I am still here.  I am happy to report that I did not fall to my death in the marbled Art Deco splendor of the Palacio de Bellas Artes, nor did I exercise an involuntary impulse to leap from the top of the monument, and I did not end up as a surprise on an unsuspecting driver's windshield.  Maybe that's what keeps me climbing.

Unlocking my potential, part 2

In the days leading up to my arrival in Mexico City, I was feeling very anxious.  Ten days by myself in a big city.  Going back to school.  Taking a spanish class for the first time since I was 16 years old.  And Mexico City itself.  Huge, vibrant, and exciting.  The place where I was mugged thirteen years ago.  I could have been in the warm embrace of some ex-pat community in Cuernavaca, but instead I chose to face my fears.  

I arrived at the airport after a pleasant flight, with a complimentary upgrade.  I grabbed an official taxi, suffered through some traffic, but eventually arrived at my apartment at #7 Calle Tokio, in the Zona Rosa, one block from the Paseo de la Reforma.  My host Francisco was supposed to there to greet me.  He was not there.  Five minutes went by.  Ten minutes.  I was a few minutes early, but now he was late.  The anxiety started kicking in.  My phone does not work.  What will I do if he doesn't show?  Is there an internet cafe somewhere close?  Twelve and a half minutes after my arrival, Francisco arrived.  Conversing entirely in spanish (let the immersion begin!) he showed me to the apartment, a beautifully appointed, ground floor one bedroom in a 40s building.  Anxiety relieved.  The apartment was going to be a great base for my time in Mexico.  

After an hour of unpacking and settling in, I decided to go for a walk around the neighborhood.  I went to the front door of the building's courtyard.  I could not figure out how to open the door.  I put my key in the lock, it would not turn.  I pulled a little lever, but it would not pull.  I unscrewed a pin in the lever, but it would not unscrew.  My mind was racing.  Would I be trapped inside the apartment all week?  Could I reach Francisco via email?  I tried a combination of pulling the door, turning the key, and...the key jammed in the door and it cracked the frosted pane of glass in the door.  Absolute panic set in.  I left the key in the lock and went back to the apartment and frantically emailed Francisco, Airbnb, Peter, anyone who would listen.  About twenty minutes into my panic, the doorbell rang.  A neighbor, or perhaps one of the construction workers, was able to open the door.  Turns out the little pin in the lever pulls out.  Quite easily.  It didn't for me.  I pulled it too hard, or tried to unscrew it when it pulled out easily, or thought that there was some kind of secret puzzle that I had to solve to open the door.  

I know that a key to my Spanish experience here is that I am going to need to allow my archived spanish knowledge to rise to the surface, on its own.  Desperately trying to translate every word I hear will only slow me down.  Worrying about perfect verb endings or gender pronouns will only get in the way.  To unleash my existing knowledge and build more, I will need to pull the pin out slowly, easily.  Allow it to open.  Otherwise, I'll jam it and maybe even crack something. 

The same goes for this new self I am working on.  It was easy to grow a beard.  I only saw the new man in mirror when I stopped trying to find him.  

Unlocking my potential, part 1

When I quit my job a month ago, I committed myself to avoid drifting into a haze of anxious puttering and Law & Order re-runs as I waited for the next thing to emerge.  Consulting projects and income would come.  What I needed was something of a personal re-boot.  I had allowed myself to become trapped in an uncomfortable cocoon of stress and dysfunction at my former job.  It was time to allow a new version of myself to emerge.   

Step one:  grow a beard and stick with it.  I've dabbled with vacation stubble off and on for years, but this time I would suffer through the itchy weeks and live life as a bearded gentleman for a while.  A few weeks into it, I had a remarkable experience.  I had just negotiated the final details of my exit from my job and took myself out to lunch for a vietnamese bun sandwich to celebrate.  After lunch I went to the restroom to wash up and as I washed my hands in the sink I took a glance at the man looking back at me in the mirror.  For the first time in months, if not years, I saw myself.  The stress of my job had created a veil that obscured an essential part of my spirit.  In a split second, my internal voice rattled off a conversation, "There you are.  Good to see you again.  Ready to move on?  Let's do it."

Step two:  Exercise.  I have often said that "I don't run."  A lifelong swimmer, sometimes at a competitive level, my chosen exercise was always in the pool.  The problem with swimming is that you need to find a pool with either a team or very low attendance during lap swimming hours.  Otherwise, swimming becomes a crowded freeway of frustration, avoiding the heads-up breaststroker who errantly found his way to the Fast lane, dodging the too-wide stroke of the triathlete who thinks they are faster than they really are, or gasping in amazement when the woman in the flowered cap decides to circle swim in your lane. When I left my job, I had been out of swimming shape for months.  I was ready for something new.  I would try running.   My first day was an utter disaster.  Taking the advice of my ultra-marathon runner Paul, I decided to do a mix of running and walking.  Two miles into a disciplined routine of 2 minutes running, one minute walking,  I found myself knocked to the ground on Crissy Field, with a leg cramp that felt like a ruptured tendon.  Little by little, I've worked out the cramps and have run as much as 6.5 miles up and down Golden Gate Park.  I run on the levy along the Russian River where I've been greeted by a coyote.  I have perhaps prematurely boasted that I want to do a marathon before I turn 50 (in 17 months), but as I progress, I can start seeing that goal as achievable. 

Step 3:  Go on an adventure.  To mark the change in my employment situation and open this new chapter, I decided I needed to get out of town.  I thought about a road trip, but early January, with short days and iffy weather, was probably not the best time to drive to the Grand Canyon.  I thought about a writing workshop, but (surprise), I could find no workshops open for enrollment two or three weeks before they started.  So, I landed on doing a Spanish immersion program in Mexico.  I debated between an array of cute colonial cities, Oaxaca, Morelia, San Miguel de Allende, but ended up deciding to spend ten days in Mexico City.  I enrolled in an intensive five day program with five hours of classes each day. I found an apartment to rent on Airbnb.  I bought my ticket and started anxiously awaiting the trip.