I love traveling. The three years I spent running around carefree and barefoot with my friends in Tanzania as our family served with MCC planted in me a love for other people, other traditions, and other cultures.

Since then I have been blessed with the opportunity to travel abroad in Europe, the Middle East, and most recently Latin America.

Thus I was excited when my MCC country reps informed me that I would be traveling to Guatemala during my last month here to clear up some issues with my visa. This would mean going across Mexico and spending several days in Guatemala, at least a week trip. But this trip would be a little different than my others.

I would be making this trip alone.

Part of this sent shivers of excitement through me every time I thought about it. The image of hosteling my way across Latin America with nothing but my backpack, a nalgene, and a weathered copy of Lonely Planet seemed very romantic.

At the same time this very thought put the fear of God into me. Because up until this point, I have always been along for the ride.

On family trips my parents took care of all the details. In college I simply deposited my check at the business office and then worried about nothing more than getting on the bus when the itinerary said to and remembering to turn in my key when we checked out of various hotels. On top of that, I had all of my friends with me.

I realized as I planned this trip that I had never bought a bus ticket on my own. I had never crossed a border solo. I had never checked myself into a hotel. For that matter, after many trips of sharing a room with family and classmates, I wasn't sure I had ever even seen the inside of a single room. And when I flew to Akron Pennsylvania for orientation, that was the first time on a plane by myself.

I pushed these disconcerting thoughts aside with the thought of how good this would be for my self confidence. After all, if I can trek across Latin America by myself, the world is my backyard right?

So last Monday I took off on the adventure of a lifetime, the first leg a grueling 14 hour night bus ride south to the beautiful colonial town of San Cristobal located in Chiapas, Mexico`s southernmost state.

In comparison to most of Mexico`s arid terrain, Chiapas is a lush paradise, with thick vegetation filling out the the mountainous landscape. I was lucky enough to travel with friends for this first part and to stay with the MCC family that works out of San Cristobal. Two days were spent recouping from my sleepless bus ride and learning about MCC`s work in Chiapas.

That Wednesday night I lay awake in my bed, knowing that the next day my travels started in earnest and trying to ignore the feeling that I really didn't want to do it.

Morning came quick and I was put on a taxi to head to the bus station for the three hour bus ride to the border. I would be crossing at a city called Ciudad Cualtemoc. Upon disembarking I realized quite quickly that this was obviously not where most of the tourists crossed.

Perhaps I got this vibe from the fact that if I had not asked where to get my passport stamped I would have wandered straight into Guatemala without even knowing it.

I bought my bus ticket to Guatemala City on the Mexican side and there ran into a missionary from El Salvador who offered to split the taxi fare to the Guatemala side of the border. I look back at him now as the first angel God put with me to guide me through my week.

As we disembarked and worked our way through the muddy streets filled with vendors of every sort, my new friend stopped to convert money with a man on the corner holding a thick stack of bills. As I was unsure of the exchange rate and an easy target for getting ripped off, I decided to exchange money when I found somewhere more “official looking.”

As we continued walking I noticed a small building to our left that said “Imigracion.” I asked my friend whether I needed to stamp my passport there. His quick response was “What do you think this is? The US?”

Coming from a country a little more concerned with paperwork I convinced him that it was important for me to get stamped and he decided he would come with me and do the same.

I was flooded with relief as immigration lazily stamped my passport. My first obstacle was out of the way. My friend on the other hand wasn't having such luck. His photocopy of whatever document he was holding did not fly, and I was left to sheepishly say sorry and head out to catch my bus.

Ten minutes of asking and a short taxi ride later, I arrived at the bus station, three minutes before its scheduled departure time. Though the bus was there with two friendly looking drivers leaning against the bus and chatting, I appeared to be the only person there.

Other than the small dusty parking lot of a small car wash surrounded by tall mountains, there was nothing to suggest this was a bus station at all. About 10 chairs were set up in what looked like a garage, giving the waiting area a feel of the overflow space of a high school graduation party. When I asked to use the bathroom I was directed up a narrow flight of stairs where I walked through someones bedroom to find it.

Ten minutes later two other men from Guatemala arrived and to my surprise, not soon after, my friend from El Salvador. I asked him if they had come to an understanding and he told me that money can buy anything.

An hour later (I was not aware that Guatemala disregards daylights savings time) the four of us boarded the full size bus along with a few more stragglers and were on our way.

The eight hour bus ride is about as scenic as you can ask for, weaving its way through the heavily forested mountains, passing by small traditional Guatemalan farm villages as the evening mist creeps over the surroundings.

We stopped several more times at bus stations that weren`t bus stations and once to have supper, where our odd foursome gathered at a booth to eat. Neither of the two men from Guatemala knew each other, but they were both heading home from the US after losing their jobs. Both were anxious to see their wives and kids, one who had not seen his family in three years and the other in seven. He told me he left to find find work when his child was one year old and looks forward to being reunited with his now eight year old son. In comparison to these two men, I realized I had very little comparatively to be nervous about.

We pulled in to Guatemala City after dark and panic struck in as I reached into my pocket to find that my sheet of paper with my destination address was no longer there. My uneasiness grew as the bus rolled through eight blocks of the shadiest red light district I have ever seen in my life, with prostitutes marking every corner.

As we reached the bus station, a one roomed building with two other parked buses patrolled by an armed guard, I realized there would definitely not be anywhere to exchange money.

I got off the bus realizing I was in a bad part of one of the most dangerous cities in the world at night, without money or the address of my hotel.

My three angel companions agreed to wait until I was sure I wouldn´t be wandering the streets, as I explained my predicament to a taxi driver. Since "Semilla Anabaptist Seminary" isn't exactly on the radar of a taxis, the driver told me that if he could help me find this place and there was somebody at the end to pay him, he would take me.

Seeing this as my best option I bid farewell to my three friends and got in the taxi of this stranger, more than aware at how EERILY similar this was turning out to be like an almost disastrous incident I had in Prague a few years ago.

As luck would have it, the taxi driver turned out to be my fourth angel, not only taking me to a hotel with internet where I could look up the address, but also giving me his cell number in case I should need anything else while I was in the city.

After a long search, we finally found Semilla, and upon ringing the doorbell, tried to explain to a short old Guatemalan lady in coke bottle glasses why despite having not paid for my room yet, she needed to loan me 100 Quetzales to pay the taxi. My faith in the generosity of a Mennonite associated guesthouse paid off, and after paying my driver, my fourth angel went on his way.

I collapsed onto my bed in my room that night, so relieved, yet wondering how much more stress I could go through in a week.

I woke up the next morning for breakfast, with no plans and seriously considering just staying at Semilla the whole time to avoid another day like the one before. As I stepped out of my room admiring the inviting and safe feeling that beautiful Mennonite associated guest houses carry with them, my fifth angel came down the stairs.

Paul Regier, a friend of mine and former classmate at Bethel, was officially the last person I expected to see in the middle of Guatemala. Alongside being a seminary and guesthouse, Semilla also hosts the CASAS program, a semester long study abroad opportunity that Bethel has connections with. Two of my good friends had done the CASAS program and spoke highly of it, but beings that it was summer, making such a connection wasn`t really on my mind.

As we talked Paul asked me what my plans were for the weekend. I told him of my interest to see Antigua, climb a volcano, and spend some time by Lake Atitlán. He informed me that the summer semester class, which involved over 20 students from Goshen, Hesston, and EMU, was taking a weekend trip to Lake Atitlán and that I should ask to come along.

Three hours later I was on a small packed school bus, happily separating the Mennonite game into three parts: connections to friends, connections to Ortmans, and connections to Freeman, and marveling at the sudden unbelievably pleasant turn of events.

I know already that I will look back on those three days with fondness for the rest of my life. Instead of wandering around by myself, I was fully welcomed into a family of fun and exciting Mennonite youth, with all travel, food, and lodging taken care of. Some of the memorable memories over those three days include:

-- Staying in the small town of Santiago along the shore Lake Atitlán, where we were the sole residents of the humble hotel we stayed at for $5 a night.

-- Taking an evening run along the shore with friends, winding through the small dirt paths in the corn fields.

-- Visiting and touring a local fair trade coffee organization. (Who boasted of visits from Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher and one to come from Bruce Willis, though for security reasons they were not allowed to give us the dates).

-- Visiting a village wiped out some years back by a landslide that killed 250 people and learning of their work to rebuild along with the help given by MCC (and currently one of my SALTer friends that lives and works there!)

-- Eating home cooked meals in the evenings around a large table, laughing and reminiscing as we tried to find ways around the strict “Spanish only” meal rules.

-- Singing hymns in four part harmony for the first time in a LONG time

-- Wonderful theological discussions that went long into the night

-- A boat ride on Lake Atitlán, despite lousy weather, to find the hot springs

-- All of the wonderful talks I had with different people in the group about just about anything.

As I waved goodbye to Paul and his angel band on Sunday as they disappeared down the road, I found myself once again feeling small in a very big world. After a bite to eat I treated myself to ice cream, where I ran into two Americans who sat down to keep me company. The one resembling David Crowder turned out to be a radio broadcaster for Compassion International and after a brief conversation we parted ways and I added another two angels to my list.

After my adventures getting into Guatemala, getting back to Mexico was almost ridiculously easy. I cautiously wandered across the street to a travel agency and told them I needed to get back to San Cristóbal. For thirty five dollars they picked me up in a roomy 15 passenger van at my hotel in the morning, took me the 5 hours to the border, waited for me while I got my papers stamped and then took me to San Cristóbal.

Along the way I had the pleasure of chatting with various people, including a creative writing professor from the US concerning Spanish Classics and with a young British lady doing her graduate work on the drug cartels of Mexico. I quickly added my travel companions to my list of angels.

After a quick stay in San Cristóbal I weathered again the 14 hour bus ride back to Mexico City. The bus stopped only once, at 2 AM to eat breakfast. I do not sleep on buses, ever, without exception, and I disembarked at 8 AM feeling my 24 sleepless hours quite heavily, but happy to be safely back home.

I calculate that I spent over 60 hours on a bus that week (enough to put a dent into the War and Peace audio book I had put on my ipod). Traveling in Latin America is unpredictable, stressful, and sometimes dangerous. Yet with all of risks caused by those waiting to take advantage of the vulnerability of others, I was moved in a new way by the angels in disguise that are around us all over the world. I was continually reminded of a song by Skillet, one of my favorite bands, which ends:

“What will you do to help someone along the way?
Just a touch, a smile as you turn the other cheek
Pray for your enemies, humble yourself, love's staring back at me
In the midst of the most painful faces
Angels show up in the strangest of places”

Mexicans are a very patriotic people and they are passionate about everything Mexican. Fiestas, tacos, mariachi bands, manly moustaches, etc. But like I imagine it is in most Latin American countries, soccer is at the top of that list.

With time winding down, I was recently fortunate enough to cross “Mexican soccer game” off my list of things I need to do before I go home. And I didn’t just see any soccer game, I went to the BIG one, to see the national team play Trinidad & Tobago, a World Cup qualifying match played in the 105,000 capacity Azteca stadium.

June 10 had been a day I had on my calendar for a few months, not even sure if it was realistic to hope for. It wasn’t the distance, I can make the trip from my house in two hours by metro (and for under $1, round trip I might add). It wasn’t the cost of the ticket either. At $13 for general admission seating, it’s very reasonably priced for a professional sporting event.

My doubts essentially narrowed down to two issues. Number one, in a city of 25 million, selling out the 105,000 seats every time is no problem. Number two, while a soccer game is not a war zone, that many passionate and moderately drunk people in one place, has the potential to become dangerous very fast.

As for the first issue, I returned home after our June 9 search for pre-ordered tickets demoralized. Not having a Mexican issued credit card, the only place to buy tickets was at the stadium itself. Chances were slim, and taking public transport for two hours on a slim chance almost didn’t seem to be worth it.

However, when I got back Mario contradicted every other Mexican I had talked to and assured me that after their embarrassing loss to El Salvador the week before and playing a low ranked Trinidad & Tobago, there would certainly be tickets. This, along with the chance to take Cha Chas, an excited 11 year old soccer fan to his first game, raised our spirits, and on June 10, off we went on our quest for a national soccer game.

As the metro drew nearer to the stadium, the metro cars began to fill with more and more green, until the doors finally opened at our stop and almost the entire metro piled out and began moving in an excited rush towards the stadium.

Scalpers inundated us immediately, offering tickets for between 200-300 pesos, about double the price. When we asked, they assured us that these were the only tickets left, the game had sold out hours ago. Incredulous yet anxious we pushed ahead, past hundreds of tents selling every type of merchandise imaginable, to the ticket office.

After all the drama and panic, getting tickets was almost comical. We waited in line behind one person and rather mundanely bought 4 tickets at 130 pesos. After getting patted down and entering the stadium, we realized that there were likely ten to fifteen thousand seats that never got filled.

Able to relax and take in our surroundings for the first time, we found that though the ticket had seat numbers, we were basically free to sit wherever we pleased.

In many ways, the scene was one of a professional game in the US, with tons of cheap company sponsored noisemakers and an abundance of nuts and beer. Vendors also brought around Raman soup, garnished with a lime wedge and a sprinkle of chili.

For anyone who has only watched a game on TV, the noise is unimaginable. When Mexico took the field to warm up, I could have closed my eyes and truly believed that we had already won the game by the crowd’s response. Similar noise was made when Trinidad & Tobago took the field. As noisemakers show no bias, it was left to the opposing team to understand that in their case, noise meant “you are not welcome here and we shall defeat you.”

When the game started, it took Mexico only 1:40 to score their first goal, to the overwhelming roar of the crowd. Nobody scored again until T&T squeaked one by the Mexican goalie with a minute left to go in the first half. Mexico would score the second half’s only goal, to come away with the 2-1 victory, keeping alive the slim chance they have of qualifying for the World Cup.

Besides the final score, there were many interesting things to learn and observe throughout the evening. Here are a few of them…

-- Mexicans all enthusiastically sing their national anthem. They also put their right hand over their hearts, but as a salute. It’s quite a magnificent choir.

-- A halftime show was significantly lacking. Instead, all the advertisers get to walk/drive around with flags boasting their products. Along the sidelines the bigger sponsors got to blow up inflatable bags of chips/beer bottles etc. Nobody really cared and it was all quite pathetic.

-- Where the game lacked in halftime entertainment it made up for in the wave. The wave circled the stadium during dull parts of the game like clockwork (about 2-3 minutes to make a full round). Everyone participates, and feet stomping precedes the actual wave, so you can feel the rumble about 10 seconds before the wave actually reaches you.

-- Before the opposing goalie kicks off the Mexican fans start stomping their feet, climaxing by saying what I assumed was “punto!” (point!) When the goalie finally kicked the ball. I joined in this tradition enthusiastically until I was politely informed that they were actually saying “puto!” which is the Mexican male equivalent to “slut” (I really don’t know what that would be in English). A bit embarrassed I decided that observing this ritual would suffice for the rest of the game.

-- There was no sports announcer and very little in the line of music throughout the game. I would assume this is on account of the fact that the sound system was fairly pathetic. I imagine a good sound system to power the fourth largest outdoor stadium in the world would cost a pretty penny.

-- Mexicans are very loyal to their team but not blindly so. When the Mexican team botched a scoring opportunity, people booed. When they started running the clock towards the end of the game, people booed. And when the game was over and Mexico had won, people booed. Why? Because Mexico played poorly and should have beated T&T much worse. Much is expected of the national team.

-- Whenever the fans were displeased with something, everyone throws whatever they have around them, usually paper plates, plastic cups, etc. This is undoubtedly a big reason why you can’t buy beer in glass bottles. Ironically enough, when Mexico scores, the fans do the exact same thing. Without fail, I could count on a two minute rain of Corona beer every time something exciting happened.

To address my second concern of soccer games being dangerous, I wasn’t entirely overreacting. The fifteen fans from T&T were escorted out by over 50 policemen in full riot gear. Maybe a bit much considering we beat them, but then again, maybe not.

The bigger danger though, was the fact that a good 50,000 of us by my estimation, had to take single metro line to get back home. Things bottlenecked when we got near the metro line and the pushing from the crowd made me fear for the first time in my life that I could very possibly be trampled to death. When a spooked or angry crowd that big gets out of control, there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.

When we finally got past the ticket window it was a stampede to get on. Packed in like cattle, we rode the metro line back for two hours. Though the crowds eventually thinned out, drunk and enthusiastic soccer fans chanted and banged on the walls of the metro cars all the way back, jumping up in down in unison and causing the speeding metro train to bounce up and down in a very unnerving manner.

We got back home around 1:00, exhausted but happy. A shower than night got all of the beer off of me, but I still have faint signs of the green, red, and white body paint, a reminder of the biggest Mexican fiesta I will ever be a part of.

MISS: Playing Bass: My church doesn’t have a praise band. I don’t think they ever will. Which is ok, we do the hymn thing, we do it well, and I am very excited to return to four part harmony. However, I have loved the opportunity to be a part of a fairly excellent praise band. The same goes for being in H20, the RECH rock band. I feel that God gave me one year to live out my dream of rock star and I have loved every minute of it. I do not however, take it as a sign that God is preparing me to be the next Bono. I’m afraid my rock star days are numbered.

NOT MISS: Having to Convert all American Recipes into Metric: I know the US is the only country that is really not getting the metric system, but I’m quite fond of cups, teaspoons, and tablespoons. I find myself running back and forth between the computer and the kitchen for the conversion chart. This same frustration surfaces with kilometers and Celsius. I should probably know the conversions for both of those by now. But I don’t.

MISS: Soccer: Not because I’m good, but because some of my most memorable bonding moments came on small fenced in concrete soccer courts.

NOT MISS: Not Flushing Toilet Paper: The plumbing here cannot handle the strain of toilet paper, so anywhere you go there is a wastebasket where these things must go. Everyone simply follows the rule of “brown faces down” and honestly after a year, it doesn’t faze you much anymore. I remember once seeing a Walmart employee dragging a huge transparent bag of poopy toilet paper down the main aisle and had to wonder at the stir that would have caused in the US. Despite my callousness, I still look forward to having snotty Kleenex being the worst possible thing that touches your hand when you take out the trash.

MISS: My MCC Team: People that are crazy enough to give up all the comforts of home to be awkward and live in a foreign environment for a portion of their lives in the name of their God, are without exception amazing and fascinating people. Though we only see each other periodically for team meetings, I always am surrounded by the feeling that I am part of something big, something greater than myself. It’s quite a rush and I think it’s something I was looking for in doing a year of service.

NOT MISS: Speaking Spanish: I still only understand between 50—70% of what’s said most of the time, which is not enough to feel intelligent and quite frankly, I like feeling intelligent.

MISS: Speaking Spanish: I know that as soon as I set foot on American soil I will be wishing there was somebody I could speak Spanish with. So I can feel intelligent. Funny that intelligence thing…

NOT MISS: Salsa as God’s Gift to Mankind: Its not just because of my spicy thing, it’s also because sometimes I feel it is really unnecessary. Like dumping it on popcorn. I feel that butter and salt usually do the trick. But whenever we watch a movie, my youth need to add salsa. This not only ruins the taste, it makes the popcorn SOGGY which is absolutely abhorrent. I am then forced to nibble around the edges of the popcorn like a little mouse.

MISS: My Congregation: I miss North Church. I miss the people, I miss the hymns, I miss Pastor Eric’s sermons, I miss the smell of cheerios in the nursery, I miss the desert table at potlucks. I could go on. But I have also come to know another way of worship, with different people, in a different culture, but with the same God. I have learned so much about the diversity of the body of Christ and I have been so blessed to not only have been so immediately accepted and loved here, but also to have the knowledge that they will always be praying for me here and will happily await a visit, whenever that may be.

NOT MISS: Megaphones: I know that vendors need to sell things to make a living. I know that sometimes they need to start selling things at 7:00 AM. But I REFUSE to believe that doing so up and down my streets with megaphones is necessary. Why? Because they use $5 megaphones and there is not a chance of understanding a word they say.

MISS: My Youth: First and foremost I will miss my youth, every last one of them. They have been patient, accepting, supportive, and have made my year a fabulous experience. When I left my loved ones at home I did so knowing I would see them again in a year. I have no idea when (or if) I will see some of my Mexican friends again.

In the end this is the hardest part about leaving: Leaving a group of people that I have bonded with through many shared experiences to return home to family and friends that love me dearly, but have shared no common experiences with me in the last year. In a way I return home with nervous anticipation, knowing that the transition back home is sometimes the hardest, but with the faith that with enough time, I can once again become part of the place I have always called home and have missed so much this year.

Over the last couple of months I have been compiling a mental list of the things I will miss and the things I will not when I return home. Today I decided to put that list into writing so here it goes…

MISS: Fried Bananas: There is a family on the corner that sells fried bananas covered in cream, strawberry jam, evaporated milk, and caramel. It costs 17 pesos and I think I singlehandedly help that family put food on the table. I’m told it doesn’t count for “fruit” but it makes me feel like I’m eating more balanced anyway.

NOT MISS: Public Transportation: I can cram into a crowded combi or metro line, but it doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I haven’t driven in so long I’m not sure I remember which is the gas and which is the brake. I look forward to riding in a vehicle where I can not only have my own seat, I can also choose the music.

MISS: Having the Most Flexible Working Hours I Will Ever Have In My Life: Some days I get up whenever I want to and still have time to do devotions, practice my Spanish, work out, and shower before I need to be anywhere.

NOT MISS: The family that lives upstairs: And it’s not just that their three year old son screams profanities that would make a sailor blush, its also the fact that there are 14 of them. The girls play poorly selected music as well, and the effort needed for tuning out their blaring off-key sing alongs sometimes gives me nosebleeds.

MISS: Cilantro: I love the stuff. Why don’t we use it more in the US?

NOT MISS: My bathroom: Don’t get me wrong, I do feel fortunate to have hot water, many of my fellow SALTers do not. But I still have to light a finicky boiler and wait 20 minutes. Showers must be premeditated. The toilet flushes, but relies solely on gravity. Buckets of water are needed every time someone makes a humble donation to the porcelain god.

MISS: DVD’s for $1: Many spur of the moment decisions were made for popcorn and a movie because you can get all you need for under two bucks. Occasionally you get a grainy film taken from someone’s camcorder in the theatre with subtitles that only come on every once in a while, but for the most part it is quite a steal.

NOT MISS: Having Nowhere to Go After 9:00 PM: Dangerous city life is a drag. Not only am I locked in my room more than I would like, it also has meant that with the exceptions of sleepovers on the weekends, nobody can do anything after 8:00 because they have to get home before dark. That’s when things get STARTED back home.

MISS: Fresh Juice: Not just fresh, but cheap. During certain times of the year fresh squeezed juice is not just cheaper than the store bought stuff, its also cheaper than buying the fruit and squeezing the juice yourself.

NOT MISS: Mexican Comedy: Mexicans love clowns. That should have been my first warning. TV Humor is so over the top here, nothing is subtle. This isn’t my sixth birthday party, I should be granted enough respect to get the punch line without mime-like facial expressions. While I’m on a TV rant, I won’t miss soap operas here either. In the US they are only on in the early afternoon when no self respecting person watches TV. Here they are on all day and waaayy too many people take them seriously.

MISS: Board Games at all Hours of the Day: It technically fits in my job description to play a few games of Risk or Settlers of Catan at 2:00 in the afternoon. Don’t really have my hopes up for that being the case ever again in my life.

NOT MISS: Duranguense and Norteño music: As a lover of music I have tried REALLY hard to appreciate both of these styles (one which is driven by the tuba, the other the accordion). I’m not sure whose idea it was after the first song of each style was written to say “Hey! We could make thousands more songs EXACTLY like that one!” Everyone listens to it. Avoiding it is like trying to find a radio station not playing country in Nebraska. Even tough looking youth thump it in their pimped out cars. Sorry kids, subwoofers were NEVER made for the tuba.

MISS: Attention From the Ladies: I’ve never had a face that stands out in a crowd, but when you’re the only American male for miles and theirs nothing to compare me to, I feel like I’m living the musical Grease. The other day the two girls behind me at the grocery store took a picture of me with their camera phones as I was leaving. And that’s not the first time that’s happened either. Our rock band played a high school graduation a few weeks ago and I had requests to have my photo taken with no less than 5 girls. I’d like to think I’m not letting it go to my head, but the gene pool sure favors Latinas and I sure don’t mind the attention. Plus my friends have ALWAYS said I have Johnny Depp’s strong jaw line.

NOT MISS: Living in a City that Doesn’t Value Cleanliness: I’m talking mostly about trash here. There are no trash cans here, so you can either put the sticky popsicle stick in your pocket or toss it on the street with everyone else’s. The channel that runs through the city by the pastor’s house is black and about as thick as pudding. People even throw their old couches in there. In about a month I face the challenge of not letting my dad pick up aluminum cans to be recycled so that we can do some touristy things like most Americans.

Stay tuned for part 2…

Mexico City provides the same services and businesses as most any American city. They say you can get anything in Mexico City…if you know where to look. Since many businesses don’t use internet or other directories, many times great stores are stumbled upon by pure blind luck.

While there are many poorer and crowed parts of the city, I have also been to some of the richer parts of town which if a person drove through, could honestly be confused with upper-class Los Angeles. In a city of 25 million, if there is something you want bad enough, you can find it.

Except for Rice Chex.

I am craving puppy chow and for the life of me I cannot find a box of Rice Chex.

But I digress. What I really wanted to blog about today was all of the stores and services here that are distinctly different from their counterparts in the US.

Let’s start with my bank. The first time I walked in to withdraw money I laughed out loud. Banco Azteca has a partnership with Electra, which is like Mexico’s Best Buy. The bank is located at the back, which means you need to pass through isles of electronics and household appliances to withdraw money. Many a poor Mexican has gone to deposit money and left with a new oven and hefty bit of debt. Clever but oh so low.

Gas stations are state owned. What does that mean? Every gas station is a Pemex, and the price is fixed all across Mexico. Every pump is manned by a person in green overalls. You tell him how many pesos worth of gas you want (the price isn’t even listed anywhere) and he washes your windows or sells you lubricants, antifreeze etc. depending on how much you want to spend. Afterwards you tip the Mr/Mrs green overalls and go on your way. You never leave your car.

Laundromats are fun as well. Every week I take my clothes to a place two blocks from my house. They weigh my clothes, ask me when I want to pick them up and then I go home with my ticket. The next day I go back, pay, and pick them up. They are clean and neatly folded in a bundle. It is wonderful.

Convenient stores. You find them on every corner. Since they are family owned, selection can really vary, but the biggest difference is that everything is behind bars. If I want something I need to ask for it so the cashier can go get it and hand it to me through a tiny window. This virtually eliminates shoplifting, but it is also aggravating for an American that doesn’t always know the name for what he wants. I’ve played many a game of “hot and cold” with puzzled cashiers.

Doctor and Dentist offices. They’re everywhere. Generally one room apartments either above or below where the doctor or dentist lives. For people without insurance, these are great options. Most are open 24/7 and a full physical checkup generally costs $2.50. That sounds a lot more reasonable than what we pay in the US to sit waiting in our underwear for two hours on that weird piece of wax paper in the doctor’s office. However, who knows how much the doctor knows.

As you probably know, the pharmacy scene here is completely different from the US, where a stern looking man in a white coat fills your doctor ordered prescription on a ridiculously high counter. Here the meds are dirt cheap. All of them. And you don’t need a prescription. In fact, the pharmacies compete for your business, often with loudspeakers or huge giant clown doctors that dance outside the pharmacy to Latin music. And really, who wouldn’t want to buy prescription drugs from a doctor doing the cha-cha?

Some things you buy here are quite a bit more expensive than in the US. Electronics are almost all across the board. However, black market and pirating are huge here. Every Sunday there is a video game booth that sets up, selling any video game you want for fifty cents.

If food is more your thing, brace yourself for the price of peanut butter. On the other hand, if you like fruit that is in season, the prices can’t be beat. About a month ago a man with a truck full of oranges came down the street. 100 oranges for $1. Can’t go wrong for a penny an orange…