To my devoted readers (both of you):

I apologize for not updating my blog in such a long time. By way of an explanation for my lack of textual output, I’d like to paraphrase Charles Dickens, who I believe was the first to identify the melancholy truth that even unbridled internet-based narcissism must once in a while take a break, or at least eat a tamale.

So whilst I’ve been on this tamale-filled break, I have busied myself with two main activities: making an ass of myself, and traveling. (The latter is a new hobby.) This being the case, the following blog entry will be divided into two appropriately titled sections.

MAKING AN ASS OF MYSELF

As many of you know, my Spanish is pretty good. Some here have even gone so far as to call it “very good,” and once, while imbibing whiskey in the days following the debacle with the police, it was regarded as “reminiscent of a less poetic, more militant Pablo Neruda. But on crack.”

As anyone who has ever tried to learn a second language will tell you, even those who can release a smooth flow of sentences on-par with a cracked-out literary giant make mistakes; it just so happens that my mistakes this week could be regarded as galactically embarrassing—and therefore (mostly) worth repeating. Luckily, I made one of these mistakes in the presence of children between the ages of 11 and 13—or in other words, a demographic that easily forgets and is always reluctant to mention the blunders of well-meaning teachers.

Here’s how it went down:

LOCATION: A classroom.

THE PLOT: I’m teaching English—specifically, family-related vocabulary, as well as quantitative words (some, all, none, etc.). In preparation for this lesson, I had students draw their own family trees for homework the previous night.

THE SETUP: Our book mentions China, and the fact that most families there only have one child. I recall reading about how many Asian societies have been keeping written records of family histories for so long that it is difficult to find someone to date or marry to whom you are not related. I mention this to the class (in Spanish), and note how extensive their own family trees are.

WHAT I MEANT TO ASK THE STUDENTS: Is it difficult in this community to find someone to date or marry that you’re not related to?

WHAT I ACTUALLY SAID: Is it difficult in this community to find someone to date or marry that you haven’t had relations with?

WHAT HAPPENED: It was a few minutes before I could get my students to stop laughing.

This was a pretty bad mistake, but not as bad as the time I talked about needing a jacket, and was then informed that the common word for jacket (chaqueta) is actually Mexican slang for “hand-job.”

TRAVELING

According to Dante’s Inferno, there are nine circles of hell. And while Dante was certainly a wise dude (I say “dude” because “wise man” and “wise guy” seem to have alternative meanings), the details he provided about each circle have failed to stand the test of time. All this nonsense about heretics and flaming tombs fails to accurately depict what hell is like nowadays—and I am sure of this, because I have seen hell. It definitely no longer involves pushing heavy weights, being trapped under water, or other activities one can do at any YMCA. No—these days hell exists in long trips to Wal-Mart, John Denver music, “modern dance” recitals, and the airport in Mexico City.

I mention all this, of course, by way of saying that I recently took a trip to the airport in Mexico City. You can guess how it went; let me fill you in on why:

My best friend in Mexico is a girl named Amanda. Amanda lives with a girl named Lynn, whose boyfriend was flying into Mexico City last Saturday. Mexico City is a five-hour, multi-bus ride from Guanajuato, and Lynn felt nervous making the trip to meet her boyfriend alone. So Amanda and I volunteered to go for safety and support.

We arrived at the airport early in the afternoon, about a half-hour before the boyfriend’s flight was scheduled to arrive. We checked the flight listings, and, seeing that the flight was listed as being on-time, decided to spend the remaining time eating delicious snacks.

While we were eating our delicious snacks, Lynn got a text message from her boyfriend alleging that his plane had had to make an emergency landing in Texas, as a very inconsiderate woman had decided to have a stroke mid-flight. However, when we checked the flight listings again, the flight was still labeled as being on-time.

In order to clear up this discrepancy, it was decided that someone should go talk to the woman working at the United Airlines desk. And as my Spanish was the best of the three of us, I was named Official Airport Liaison.

Upon receiving this promotion (from my previous position of Official Eye Candy), I immediately began forming a plan to get the information from the person at the desk: I would have to gain her trust, and I endeavored to do so by honorable means: promises of acting work, and maybe a trip to a nice restaurant—someplace fancy and romantic, like an Olive Garden or Arby’s.

But just as I was slathering myself in some newly purchased Old Spice, Amanda claimed that if I just asked for the information, the woman at the desk would willingly divulge it, as it was her job.

I laughed at the reckless absurdity of her suggestion.

Me: Oh really? And if that’s the case, what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with all this charm I’m carrying around?

Amanda: Jesus, Kevin. I have no idea. But at least you smell better than usual now. What happened to your usual scent—Musk of Ox, I believe it is?

Me: Har har, mein Freund. Do you want me to go ask, or shall we stand here longer so you can shower me in tepid witticisms you likely gleaned from a Garfield comic strip?

Amanda: Touche. I bow to your wit. You are indeed charming and handsome, and certainly more clever than I. Will you please use your super Spanish skills to procure the desired information?*

*This last line is not exactly what Amanda said. To the untrained ear, her actual remarks would have sounded a lot more like “Go f--k yourself.” But I know her well, and have translated this seemingly negative sentiment into what she really meant.

And so I did procure the information: the woman at the desk said that a passenger had become “ill,” and that the plane had landed briefly in Texas, but should be arriving in Mexico City within the next 90 minutes.

Seven hours later, the plane arrived.

And believe it or not, this story has not yet begun to get ridiculous.

It’s late now, though, and I need to get some sleep. I’ll have to stop this story here and pick it up again later. Until then, file this under TO BE CONTINUED…

Sincerely,
Kevin