Mic drop

This semester, I'm teaching one of my classes in a large-seat lecture hall that requires me to either mic up or yell for 50 minutes, 3 times per week. I've got a solid set of lungs and can project like a mofo, but I still prefer to use the mic (when it works, anyway). I work it up there, doing my dance and throwing down like a rock scientist, if not rock star.



The other day, while getting full-body animated trying to explain pillow basalt formation on the ocean floor, I got my shoe caught in my mic cord. Since the cord only extends from my left lapel to my right back pocket, I cannot really explain how this happened. What I do know is that suddenly finding one foot trapped up near your waist while bouncing around on one high heel is not a classy look. Thanks to the cloud of small miracles that seems to surround me and prevent complete destruction when something like this goes awry, I did NOT actually catapult semi-hogtied into the stands, nor did I actually finish dropping to the floor. For my students, I imagine it was something like this:

                                                    

I eventually extricated my foot and spent the next few seconds simultaneously lecturing and bending the mic clip back into a shape that would actually attach to my shirt, since it somehow got seriously warped during my graceful performance. To my credit, I didn't skip a beat.

I'm fairly certain that my teaching reviews will go up the day I finally bite it in front of the room. Until then, I now have a student assigned to call campus safety if/when I do go down; I like to think of it as insurance against the inevitable.

My new jungle

Ok. It has been an embarrassingly long time since I've written here. I am no longer in Mexico, for starters, and I have a real (!) job at a US university. Yay!! Anyone inside of academia will understand what it means to land a tenure track position at a university where you have excellent, supportive, collegial colleagues. For those of you outside of academia, it's a little bit like winning the lottery. The lottery prize requires incredibly long work hours and indescribably weird situations on occasion, but it's something that I've been trying to get to for longer than I care to admit and required 4 years of undergrad, 6 years of grad school, and 2 years of postdoc. I am, in short, thrilled.

Career fulfillment does not translate into not looking like an idiot goofball in photos. You can thank my lovely colleagues for this one.

My new position in the academic ivory tower comes with its own special challenges, and I would be lying if I pretended that I handle them all with grace or didn't create many of them for myself. The best I can do is laugh hysterically at myself (and sometimes my students or colleagues). I am not good at being a tweed jacket wearing, inscrutable, authoritative professor -- I'm young (relatively), female, and too goofy/sarcastic. As such, I plan to use this blog to occasionally share stories of what happens behind the scenes, or awkwardly publicly, for a young faculty. The stories will mostly be my own, but I will occasionally borrow from friends, so long as I have their permission.

To kick things off, let me tell you about a recent adventure I had on my way to work. I teach every morning at either 9 or 9:30 am, depending on the day, and I tend to arrive at work a little before my first class of the day starts. It was the second week of the semester, and it turns out that I wasn't yet in the groove. I was reviewing my slides and adding video content at my dining room table when I realized with horror that it was Friday, not Thursday.

In general, there is no good reason to wish for a day to be Thursday instead of Friday. Friday is the end of the week. Around here, Fridays don't even have meetings. Friday is a great way to welcome the weekend. My problem was that I teach my Friday morning class at 9 am, and it was now 8:52.

In a mad rush, I threw my laptop into my bag, tossed on the first pair of shoes I could find, and hoped desperately that I'd already brushed my teeth and hair (I had, thank goodness!). I more or less squealed into my assigned parking lot at school and took off at a sprint across campus to the building where my class was meeting.

I've become a runner in the past year, so at least I was partially prepared for my mad dash. Unfortunately for me, the skirt I was wearing kept riding up as I ran, rising up due to the friction with my backpack. I held my purse in my left hand like a football and used my right hand to keep pulling my skirt back down so that I wasn't flashing unsuspecting students as I flew across the Quad. Doubly awkward, I've lost some weight recently, and one particularly energetic attempt to keep my skirt from riding up almost pulled it off entirely. It is miraculous that I crossed the Quad without seriously violating indecency laws.

I was not wearing these shoes, or any other running shoes. At least I managed to grab flats on my way out the door. Can you imagine how much worse it could have been??

I got to my building, rushed up the stairs, burst into my classroom, and hooked up my laptop and microphone faster than I ever have before, while 62 pairs of eyes stared at me out of the murky darkness of the lowly-lit room. According to my computer clock, I must have bent time in there somewhere, because I was already lecturing by 9:03 am. The students never said a word about it, and didn't even call me out on the fact that I was breathing heavily into my mic like a lewd prank caller. They either like me or are scared of me. Either one would be completely fair at this point.

Mexican food revisited

Nearly 2 weeks ago, I attended a Mexican-themed potluck holiday dinner. It was fantastic. There were many wonderful dishes, and lots of effort was put into authenticity. As I was cooking my contributions (chicken mole and esquite), I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. It wasn't an ingredient I was searching for (though I made some minor substitutions to reflect what I could get), nor was it the wonderful weather of Mexico City (though I would have preferred it to the icy conditions outside); I was mostly just lost to be cooking Mexican food without one of my beloved balls of fire in the kitchen. My current rental kitchen might not be fabulous, but in over 3 months of using it I have not yet had a single fireball shoot out of my oven. Strange.

Sadly for my chicken mole, it was served in the kitchen with the other crock pot foods. This was a bummer, since everything else was served in the dining room and attendees mostly forgot about the second room of food. As a result, Keating has been eating chicken mole steadily for nearly 2 weeks (I spent last week presenting my Mexican research findings at a conference in California). I think he's ready to put aside the Mexican food again, fireballs or no.

The buildup to the conference kept me fairly busy, so I have taken longer than intended to post more stories from Mexico. Over the holidays I will try to post about our Buffalo-Mexico-Saint's Day-4th of July in between hours spent with family and spent polishing up a research proposal I'm working on. Happy holidays!

I'm still standing

Hmmm... December 4. Yeah. September, October, and November were good. I've been busy at the new job, which largely includes writing new papers, editing old papers, applying for my next job (seriously, that's considered an acceptable work activity), numerical modeling, and overseeing an undergraduate research project. I've also been enjoying having an American kitchen back, including an oven that has not once thrown a fireball at me. (On the flip side, I succeeded in giving myself chemical burns on my hands one night thanks to a misguided evening cooking with hot peppers. I can apparently do dumb stuff in any country.) Keating has been doing well also. He managed to find a full-time job shortly after arriving and has enjoyed spending time with his family here in Western NY. We're both thrilled to have our beastie back; Asher is asleep next to me, saving his energy to demand another early morning walk tomorrow (Keating gets up with the dog. I flail my arms and mutter gibberish.)

I still have stories to tell from Mexico, plus new adventures here in New York. On top of that, it's good for me to keep writing something that doesn't include 50-cent words like "phreatomagmatic." (Dad read that word in my most recently published paper and wanted to know if I made it up. Answer: nope.) That said, it's time to recommit myself to updating my blog. Here goes.

Goodbyes

Tonight is my last night in Mexico. Trying to get everything ready for the move back to the states as well as complete work down here (I spent this last week in the field) has been hectic enough that I've failed to update this blog for a month. Fortunately (or not?), I have a stash of stories yet and will continue to make updates for a while. Who knows -- maybe I'll even change the "Life in Mexico" part of the title and keep writing. We'll see.

This past spring while in Cancun, my friend Jackie asked me what I missed most about the US. My mom was sitting with us and chimed in with "Her dog!" While I miss my puppy wildly (thank you again Mom and Dad for taking care of him!!!), that was not the answer that was springing to my lips. Family and friends, while greatly missed, weren't my top item either. The number one thing I miss the most about the US: flushing toilet paper. It is so nice when it just goes away after you use it instead of letting it collect for a few days and then having to empty the trash. Unfortunately, Mexican plumbing (like that in much of the world) is unprepared to handle flushed paper. I think that flushing some TP might be my first act back in the US, shortly after crossing through Customs and Immigration. I don't care if I don't need to use the facilities; I will simply walk into a stall, rip off a square of toilet paper, and merrily flush it away. It will be good.

In honor of leaving Mexico, I wanted to make a quick list of things I've missed about the US and things that I will miss about my temporary homeland, Mexico. In no particular order:

Missing the US:

1) Flushing TP. Yup... still number one.

2) Friends/family/dog.

3) The freedom of having my own car again.

4) The stars. The light and air pollution here is such that you can't see them in Mexico City.

5) Road berries. My mom gagged when I mentioned this one to her, but it' snot nearly as revolting as it sounds. When I was visiting Michigan in July, I had a wonderful time picking and eating wild raspberries along the side of the road while I walked my dog. There were at least 3 varieties, and they were all delicious.

6) Really good desserts/chocolate. Most of the desserts/chocolate down here are very bland and end up tasting a lot like processed sugar. I have not seen a single fudgy/gooey/caramel-y/decadent dessert down here.

7) Buffalo wings! Watch out Duffs! I'm coming back!

Missing Mexico:

1) Friends down here. They've been great. The people as a whole have made the entire experience worthwhile.

2) Public transportation. It can be scary at times and quirky at others, but it can also be a lot of fun. At the very least, it's pretty empowering knowing that you can competently maneuver around this city on public transit. It's like, "If I can do this, I can handle anything. Bring it!" And then I wave my jazz hands.

3) The food. Oh, tortilla soup, pozole, tacos al pastor, pambazos, elote, esquite, etc, what will I do now that you won't be a food cart away???

4) That amazing sense of (self-indulgent) coolness that comes from living in a foreign country. It's pretty darn cool. This alone is enough to get me past the occasional melt-down day when I just wish everyone down here spoke English. It feels great to do something that feels so different, and to be doing it in a foreign language.

5) My garden. It is scary-easy to grow plants down here, and my lilies, impatiens, ivy, mums, bougainvillea, etc. are absolutely thriving under my diligent neglect. I actually feel like an accomplished gardener!

6) The complete surreality that exists down here. I can round a corner and find myself facing a 6 foot tall bush molded into the form of a duck. Or my bus might stop in the middle of a 5 lane road and all of the passengers have to do a Chinese fire drill and board the bus behind us. Or accidentally finding a tarantula in the wild. Every single day has some hidden gem down here.

7) Looking up on clear days and being surrounded by majestic volcanoes.

While I'm moving back to the US for a new job, I will always have a part of me in Mexico. I've got a conference down here in November, continuing field work in March, and every intention to continue to work with Mexican volcanoes in the future. They certainly haven't seen the last of me here! For now, though, I'm tired and ready to see Keating again. He's been in the US for the last couple of weeks sorting out our new apartment, job hunting, etc. This time tomorrow, I'll be asleep in our new place, catching a few hours rest between my midnight arrival and my 8 am job start. Nothing like cutting it down to the wire, huh? That said, I'm off now to catch a couple of hours of sleep before my early flight.

Hasta pronto.

Weekend touring

On Sunday, Keating and I decided it was time to run down to Taxco to check out the famous silver markets. We got up early(-ish) and hopped a pesero to the city's southern bus terminal to get our tickets. Ten minutes later, we were happily situated on a very nice Greyhound-style bus enjoying our free beverage and watching Changeling in Spanish.

Living in Mexico has been great for me. It has taught me to let go of some of my embarrassment and sound like an idiot in questionable Spanish and to eat things that would otherwise not cross my lips (anyone up for some local corn fungus? It grows on the corn cobs and looks, well, vile.). More than anything, however, the buses of Mexico City have affected how I handle transportation; riding the peseros to work daily has been like a vaccination for my otherwise miserable motion sickness. I've even become sufficiently acclimatized that I can occasionally read on the bus without thinking that I'm going to die. (Betcha can't tell where this is going!)

Despite this, however, the 2.5 hours bus ride to Taxco through the mountians was waaaay more than I could take. I almost made it all the way there -- we were within Taxco city limits, even -- when I finally lost it. As I clamped my hands over my mouth, Keating dashed to the bathroom at the back of the bus to grab me a barf bag (he had been blocking me in). Finding it locked, he sprinted to the front of the bus, where he proceeded to use broken Spanish and pantomime in a desperate bid to get the driver to understand what he needed. Fortunately, a woman in the front row not only figured out what he meant but also knew where the bags were stashed (they are apparently normally passed out with your free drink at boarding). Keating ran back to me, his hands filled with baggies and paper towels. It was just in time. Moments later, we pulled into the bus terminal. I have never in my life seen people get off a bus that quickly.

Once I felt well enough to walk under my own power again, Keating and I began to explore Taxco by finding a cafe and a pharmacy that sold Dramamine by the dose. Taxco is a beautiful town built into the sides of the mountains are reminds me of the Mexican interpretation of those famous Greek villages with tiered white homes with terracotta tile roofs stacked on upon another up the slopes. There are random arches and second-floor elevated walkways connecting buildings. The streets are cobbled and narrow, and many give up on the pretext of being a road and have entire patches of winding covered stairs connecting drivable stretches. Doorways open intermittently off of the street/stairs, leading into various silver shops and markets.

I'm not much of a shopper, but I have a weakness for jewelry. Keating, who hates shopping, is thrilled to know that he is already covered for our anniversary, my birthday, and Christmas, not to mention Christmas for most of his relatives.

We finally worked our way up through the maze to the central plaza, with its stunning 240 year old Spanish Baroque style cathedral. It was a beautiful, sunny day so we decided to sit on a shady park bench in the plaza and relax while we drank some water. This was a splendid plan for a good 8 minutes, or right up until a bird pooped on my leg. Keating helped me clean it up, laughing at me for my bad luck. Sure that lightning (and poop) never strike twice, we decided to sit for a little longer (to be fair, the bird appeared to have left). Maybe two minutes later, that f-ing bird pooped on my shoulder. As I howled indignantly, Keating snatched the remaining paper towels out of my hand: the bird had managed to get his nose! Thoroughly grossed out but laughing hysterically, we abandoned our shady bench and wandered back into the markets in search of a money clip for Keating and some ice cream to take away some of the emotional pain from the bird attack.

At 6:30 pm, we boarded our bus back to Mexico City. We happily took our seats, free soft drink and peanuts, and Dramamine (well, I did anyway), and settled in for our movies on the return trip (much longer due to Sunday night traffic entering the city). We had our gross-out moments, but it was a wonderful day trip. We've already started discussing how much fun it would be to go vacationing with some friends or relatives, hopping buses between beautiful colonial Mexican towns and ending up with a relaxing weekend at the beach. Any takers? We promise to not let you sit on the magic park bench, and I swear I will take my Dramamine (the drugged trip home was wonderfully uneventful). In the meantime, we're already planning our next weekend escape to Acapulco.

***** Note: True to form, Keating and I both forgot our cameras at home. These pictures were totally stolen off of the web.

Back in the kitchen

Last night I decided to have some fun in the kitchen. I've learned the trick to sweet-talking my violently combustible oven and I refuse to use the grill after Keating's exploits, so it was a low-key event. I made up some stone-fruit pie 'cause I'm a geologist and that's the sort of thing I do. The pie was filled with an amazing combo of fresh nectarines and red plums, seasoned with brandy, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and featured my first attempt at a homemade crust. For dinner, I decided that I was too lazy to follow my normal obsession of stuffing food inside of food and decided to turn my pear, sweet onion, and edam cheese stuffed chicken breasts into a layered casserole served over seared portobello mushrooms with fresh green beans on the side. Very Mexican, I know. Despite it not having a single chili pepper in sight, the dinner came out AMAZING. As in, it was so good that Keating and I immediately divvied up the rest into jealously guarded Tupperware for today's lunches.

Now, as proud as I am of last night's dinner, I realize that it makes for terminally boring blogging. I am writing it mostly in an attempt to convince my parents that I really CAN COOK. You see, the kitchen gods hate me when it comes to cooking for my parents. In recent years, I have repeatedly set off the smoke detector (which was really awesome since I was cooking so that my mom could lie down with a migraine), overcooked chicken into shoe leather, nearly ruined my mom's pans, and accidentally got drunk while cooking the dinner at which Keating and I were introducing our parents. On this last trip home, I managed to put all that to shame.

I was trying to recreate a recipe I had made up down here and had completely wowed Keating with. I coated chicken breasts with breadcrumbs, fresh ginger, raw oats, and a dash of nutmeg and then baked them. These were then served with a homemade mango-chipotle salsa. The whole effect was sweet-and-tangy with a mildly nutty flavor. It was great. What I made for my parents was not. I shaved the ginger wrong (lengthwise) and over-baked the chicken, resulting in what looked like dusty turds covered in hair. That was nothing, however, compared to the salsa: I'm pretty sure it qualified as a chemical weapon. I don't know whether the problem came from using a different brand of canned chipotle peppers or if I somehow absentmindedly quadrupled the number of peppers I used, but it was hot enough to literally take my breath away despite having been eating Mexican-grade spicy since December. As soon as I could breath again, I gasped a warning to my dad before he could take a bite. Sadly for him, I think he assumed I was joking and took a nice, large forkful. I will never know quite how he managed to keep from spewing it back out, but he managed to not only swallow it but try to smile as though it wasn't actually as bad as it was, all while huge tears welled up in his eyes. It was at this moment that my mom walked into the dining room, having just finished a phone call with my brother. Fortunately for her, Dad and I were able to convince her to scrape all of the sauce off of her chicken without even trying it. Perhaps we were more convincing because we were both still choking and crying a little bit. Keating was spared the entire event as he was still in Mexico at that time and didn't arrive until I had already been informally barred (yet again) from being "helpful" in the kitchen.

Given my track record, I think I need to stop trying to cook for my parents while I'm ahead. They may never be convinced that I really do make some great food, but they will also never be able to blame me for a nasty case of salmonella (I think I gave Dad chemical burns, though). From now on, I think I'll just have to rock the pizza delivery option when offering to take care of a meal while I'm visiting.

P.S. - I swear that this is not the reason why Keating has lost ~40 lbs since we moved here. That's all exercise and fresh fruit/veg. I swear. Back me up on this, Keating???? Please????