the red sock always falls first

Every now and then I go check my stats and somewhere, down there on the right-hand side, there is a live traffic feed. It's nice to know that people come here and read my stuff. Often these visitors are regular (hello to both of you) but sometimes people pop in and out randomly. There are the Google searches - most of which are a bit scary: did I really say type that out loud? - and then there are the visitors from  the ex-pat blog.

And then it occurred to me, how much of an ex-pat blog is this any more?

Looking back through the last two months of posts (yes, I realise that means only about ten posts - I'm a very naughty boy, definitely not the messiah) there doesn't seem to have been much said about the differences between living in Mexico and living in England (and I realise there should have been a comma somwhere in that sentence but when I'm on a typing roll, I'm on a roll). It occurred to be that I was no longer a stranger in a strange land. The failure (on my behalf) to learn Spanish isn't as big a disaster as it was. Three years (almost) of living here means that I can follow most conversations and the background chatter no longer sounds totally alien any more. I am coming to know this city When Maria sets off in one direction, takes a turn, I actually know why because I know where we are going and how we are getting there. The sight of palm trees no longer amazes me. Small lizards scurrying away are no longer a reason to stand still and stare. Power cuts, buying gas, going for water are all part of the regular day-to-day business.

What I am trying to say is that...and this is where this post changes...

I started this post at the weekend. However, you might have noticed that I posted four times over the weekend, so I thought that banging out another post might not be a good idea. I thought I'd save this post for a bit later. I also wasn't too sure where it was going. I knew where it was going to end up, just not sure where it was going and how it was going to get there. It was going to end with the dramatic conclusion that, after nearly three years, I've found my home.

And I have. Nothing has happened to change that feeling. This is where my home is. Home is where the heart is. I am happy. I am in love. Everything is wonderful. But (big butt) I have been suffering (since The Lion King) from a certain amount of over-confidence and self-belief. Most of this has been aimed at my professional life but some of it has spilled over into my living life. The other day I admitted that I might actually be good looking! Along with that, I started to write a post (this post here) about how I am almost a Mexican and fully integrated. Obviously it was time for me to get kicked off my pedestal.

Monday night we got stopped by the police (you can read about it here). Mexican police scare me, scare me to death. In her post, Maria tells how I spent most of the time carrying the shopping in from the truck. This wasn't just because I am a wonderful person (ooo, get me) but mainly to do with the fact that I didn't want to hang around chatting with a Mexican policewoman. The police here scare me to death! I am not yet acclimatised.

Tuesday night I stepped out on to the balcony for a cigarette, it was about 9:30pm. As I lit up there was the sound of automatic gunfire, about three blocks over. In the four seconds of silence, that immediately follows any automatic gunfire, I stood watching the kids, who had stopped playing football in the street below. My first instinct was to run inside and hide but I noticed that they resumed their game, as if nothing had happened. For, another two seconds, I resolved to be more Mexican, I would continue to smoke my cigarette, I would carry on regardless. Fortunately Maria called from inside the flat to inform me that she had heard (or read) somewhere that bullets have been known to travel a little further than 20m. She wasn't sure if it was a fact or an urban myth. However, on the off chance that it was a fact, that a bullet, fired from a semi-automatic gun could possibly/maybe travel a little more than 20m, it might be an idea to get my cute English ass off the balcony and behind the sanctity of brick walls. With a slight sense of regret (I am not fully acclimatised to living in Tijuana) and in an orderly/controlled way, I dropped my cigarette and fled back into the flat, to hide under the bed (only pausing to agree that my ass is kinda cute - going to have to do something about this over confidence thing, it just isn't becoming of me).

W*dnesd*y night/Thursday morning. We were going to bed after a Mad Men marathon, it was 1:40am. As I wandered round the flat, being my dad, switching everything off, checking the locks on the doors, I asked Maria if she remembered bar-ing the car (putting the bar/crooklock on the steering wheel). She didn't remember so I volunteered to go out and check the car. Theoretically this meant, stepping out the flat, going down a flight of stairs, unlocking the front gate, crossing the road, unlocking the car, putting on the bar, locking the car, crossing back across the road, locking the gate, climbing one flight of stairs, closing the door. All in all, a journey of 40m (there and back) or one minute in time (tops). I grabbed my keys (obviously), my wallet (I might need identification), and my phone (if I got into any trouble I would need to call for back-up). The walk down the stairs was fairly uneventful. I stood, peering through the gate for a couple of minutes, checking that there were no cars on the road, no pedestrians about, no drug dealers/kidnappers lurking in the bushes. The gate unlocked, I ran across the road, pressing the car's remote as I moved. Diving into the car I grabbed the bar, turned quickly and stared back into the street, ready to beat anyone who was trying to sneak up on me. There was no-one there. Now I was in a quandary. If I put the bar on the steering wheel I was effectively disarming myself. What to do, what to do? I toyed with phoning Maria, so that anyone who was thinking of raping me would see that I was in contact with someone. I didn't phone - realising that my mobile would cast a beam of light around me that would just scream "mug me". I attached the bar, ran back across the street (zig-zagging to avoid sniper fire), dived in through the gate, slamming and locking it behind me. Up the stairs (four at a time), and commando-rolled back into the flat. Safe.

I don't really think that I have totally come to terms with living in Mexico. I think that there are still some things that worry me. I think that maybe, just maybe, I am still a foreigner here. An Englishman living in Mexico. Mind you, my girlfriend thinks I have a cute ass!

Comments

[(S)wine]

Ah now; it sounds very much like living (growing up) in Washington D.C. in the 80s. And now I'm melancholic...

[J.A.]

Except Mexico, the only place I've never felt foreign when visiting is (surprisingly) Japan! I can not explain why; anywhere else I've been I feel displaced. In any case, I think you already qualify for the "honorary" Mexican position

[Vanessa]

I had been wanting to comment that gradually on your category cloud, 'the job' has been outpacing 'mexico' - somewhat regretfully, because I greedily, selfishly, want cultural dissonance so that I can look at it and class myself more normal, but also somewhat with relief, because you are saying that cultural assonance (see how I got your arse into a comment there? 50 cents a mention) can exist, that a happy ending is simply a matter of time and patience.
But then you decided that you're not mexican enough to dodge bullets. So now I only wanted to say that if you're mexican enough to refer to your arse five times per post, you're well on your way to latin manhood, no worries at all. :)