The Hippodromo

       If at the moment you exited your plane at the Districte Federale Aeropuerto, you were blindfolded, and whisked away to the Amsterdam hippodromo, you would not believe you were standing in Mexico City. Amsterdam, as you can assume, given its name, is ridiculously European. The neighborhood itself circles a large park riddled with fountains, ponds, large stone paths, and bridges. Dogs of all kinds and sizes roam off leash with their owners. Amsterdam must be dog heaven. I have never seen so many dogs...so many different breeds. They run rampant in and out of the fountains; chasing the ducks. 
       The shops and restaurants are a delight to gaze at. There are quite a few Spanish restaurants in the Hippodromo, but a Californian would have a hard time recognizing the food as Mexican cuisine. It is far saucier that what I am used to, being from North Cal, where what you see a lot of is Fresh Mex or Cali Mex. But who really minds anyways? All the food here is delicious, tempting, and potentially dangerous to a susceptible digestive system.

      My favorite restaurant, by far, is a French place near Insurghentes. Even better, across from where I stay there is a Starbucks, a Yogurtland, and this marvelous tiny gourmet Italian restaurant, deli, and shop. Last fall they had so many samples of pan de morte, olive oil, breads, and dips, that I would wander around with a basket "intent" on shopping, when really I'd just be grazing their samplings. This season they don't have many samples out. That may be my fault. I don't know if they recognize me, but the barista at Starbucks certainly does. He had to tell me last time I was here that I was making things difficult for him. I kept ordering nonexistent items from the menu. He explained that he speaks fluent English, and, wouldn't it be best for me, for both of us, if I used my native language? So now I am forced to inflict my parroting on innocent taxi drivers. But when the poor guy isn't behind the counter, I stubbornly choose to wreak havoc on other innocent Starbucks employees with my Monkey Spanish.

    My mom and I call our use of the Spanish language "Monkey Spanish" because our grasp of it is so general that basically all we do is go through the motions. What comes out of my mouth is never the same, and never, ever, truly Spanish, but I am working on it as often as possible (it is so, so important to know what someone is explaining when they are instructing you on the choreography of walking down a runway). Sometimes I catch myself just speaking English with a Spanish accent, which does nothing at all except confuse the general public. Often after people get a chance to listen to me talk, they treat me like a fragile object or an explosive devise that has no idea when it will explode and hasn't decided yet what should trigger it. Suffice to say, I think I make the people and baristas of DF nervous.

          The agency is naturally closed on Sabado y Domingo so I didn't anticipate landing any jobs or castings over the weekend. My occupation the night I arrived was to keep busy enough to ward off homesickness.

          It's difficult to get out of bed when you are just tired from the trip and no one prompts you to get up. Friday evening was all bustle because I had to buy sheets and shampoo, etc. and when my shopping was done, I decided I needed to wash and flop right into bed or else I'd spend my time feeling sorry for myself. I was able to chat on Skype (what a glorious invention!) with my mom, which was very comforting. The apartment was basically empty, with all the girls out clubbing, and my soon-to-be roommate, Gabriella, was at a shoot. I chose an empty top bunk and after engaging in a brief tango with the bunk ladder that resulted in a bruised stomach, finally just slumped into the bed. It was hard not to feel a little bit triumphant: I had actually settled in, even though I hadn't yet gone through the motions of unpacking.