The wedding and the divorce

After my previous, somewhat emotional post I'll continue where I left off two weeks ago. My cousin Magu had invited me to a wedding party despite the couple didn't personally send me an invitation card. I had met them a week before in Tepic, but only briefly and we weren't that sober either which made the encounter rather superficial. At first I was a bit reluctant to attend the ceremony for said reason, but eventually I conceded and invited myself as Alejandra's couple in order not to appear as an unkown party crasher. And why not? After my first wedding in a tiny town near the capital a few weeks ealier I could start turning it into a sport. So, Saturday quickly came around. For the first time on my trip I actually dressed up nice for the occasion, i.e. black jeans with minor holes, a borrowed shirt and a pair of black shoes. I even combed my hair. It felt strange, but whatever. In this life I always try to think 'why not?'. Really, that question can take you to places you never imagine you'd go to. It's like saying 'yes', but less direct. The wedding wasn't too formal. Everyone was kind of dressed for the occasion, but not to that extent that a whole two-week salary was spent for the outfit. Oh, right, the (now) married were Pillo and Francia, who decided to marry just to get over the hassle. Let me tell you both are very fond of norteño music, so it doesn't surprise that genre dominated throughout the whole wedding party. It could be classified as a boda ranchera, or a real cowboy wedding, only loaded with money. Lots of money. The event started around 14:00 with the ceremony taking place in the same salon where the party was held, seen that it was a civil marriage. No religion interfered. Despite that aspect, the ceremony lacked a bit in charm. But the subsequent celebration made everyone forget that part.

Three five-liter bottles of Red Label scotch, 300 bottles of beer, an all-you-can-eat taco stand and a jukebox playing non-stop banda and norteñas for not even a 100 guests. As you could imagine, I was prepared for a binging feast just like Bacchus commands, with the expectation of at least ending up lying completely zoned out on the grass like a squashed spider. Unfortunately, precisely on that day ole' uncle Murphy came to apply his law on to me. Thank you, asshole. From the beginning I started feeling a minor stomach ache that grew worse as the evening passed by, abstaining me from alcohol and delicious tacos. I couldn't even go number two. So there I was at the table, observing how everyone else - except for Magu who suffered of diarrhea that day - launched themselves onto the party's delights. Ah yes, most oportune. Well, in the end I did manage to eat and drink a bit, so the evening wasn't completely ruined.

The time I can't remember, but suddenly a large-numbered brass band appeared and started extremely loud banda music, comparable to norteño but more focused on wind instruments instead of guitar and accordion. While the poor jukebox had trouble making the invitees move, the band instantly lifted them up. It's fascinating to watch how live norteño music incites people, a phenomenon I've witnessed on various occasions. These Mexicans sure know how to fuel up a party with good vibes. Although I'm completely fed up with the now incredibly popular genre, I tried to dance to it anyway. It's not that hard. You just have to grab your partner close to you and jump around with cartoonesque allures. It's quite fun, actually. And it made me forget the discomfort in my bowels.

The evening slowly, but pleasantly turned into night while the band played on and the guests handed themselves over to drunken revelry, when a minor drama was starting to build up. I won't go further into it, instead I'll just say it inspired me to write the previous entry which reflects the moral weight I was carrying. It got a bit out of control when the party was moved from the salon to the couple's roof terrace of their house. Eventually I managed more or less to ignore the ordeal and enjoyed the rest of the night. Meanwhile Pillo was introducing me to his by then inebriated friends, most of them wealthy licencees with interesting stories about their cars and travels. There's only a slight sarcastic tone to it, because some of them had really interesting things to talk about. While I was chatting around suddenly a group of musicians started hoisting their equipment onto the roof terrace. Indeed, Pillo had ordered a second band to entertain the guests. This time, a norteño band consisting of accordion, guitar, bass and percussion. My cousin Magu told me they charged 3000 pesos (about 176 EUR) per hour. I didn't verify that figure, but just imagine the cost of hiring two bands playing for two hours or more. And so the party went on untill I was too tired to talk and drink. Unpercieved I descended and lay down, physically and mentally exhausted. I wasn't even slightly tipsy, probably due to the moral hangover as my cousin Mariana described it perfectly. The day was done.

In the end I had a pretty good time: a vibrant mood, people dancing, music, food, alcohol,... Indeed, it was a succesful evening despite the drama. Eventually it wasn't that unfortunate that I couldn't binge on. It would have worsened the situation without a doubt. And sometimes, it's kind of fun observing with sober eyes others evolve from decent, withhold and formal guests to loosend up, intoxicated and exhilirated satyrs. A bit lonely, but fun nonetheless.

After that weekend with a mindset of getting the fuck out, I left GDL and its affairs to make a final family stop in León, Guanajuato. Actually, I was ready to jump back into the unknown but I couldn't just ignore that part of my vast family tree who I hadn't seen in about ten years. Ten years! That's a whole lifetime. So there I stayed for week and left just time before I would be tempted anew to stay longer. Taken the long time gap into consideration I was confronted with a couple of interesting developments. For instance, the younger child of the bunch - Marcelo - has grown from a crying toddler into a 15-year old adolescent with an interest in music and parkour. The second youngest Manuel is now 19 years old and keeps himself busy with handicrafts, djembe and the guitar. I discovered he is one of the few cousins with similar interests and view on life. Then, both females Arzi (23) and Rosi (21) have become mothers of two. There you go, Mexicans are really hasty in that respect. It's kind of like: "Oh, gosh, 25 is coming close. I better get knocked up and marry quick so I can waste the best years of my life to early adulthood." Well, more or less. It's like how I look at it in a humoristic way. But obviously cultural differences make early family planning in this country common. Anyway, for the first time I was reminded that I've been an uncle for a quite a while without even noticing it. That was a pretty enlightening experience. When I heard them say: "Look darling, here's your uncle Diego", "What do you think of your uncle?" or "Your uncle Diego comes from very far" I was stunned, silenced, even endeared. Now that's instant aging right there.

In that week my cousin Armando and his girlfriend took me to the yearly fair which isn't that much different from fairs in Belgium with the exception of the food stands. Man, there was so much to eat for such moderately cheap prices! Endless rows of tacos, hamburgers, hotdogs, gorditas, more tacos, seafood, etc. colourize like christmas lights in the night. And don't forget the odours, they make you hungry all the time. A typical snack of that region are dorilocos: a bag of Doritos cut open and filled with peanuts, cucumber, tomato, animal skin and a very, very spicy sauce. A delicacy, only I couldn't finish it because it was way too hot for me. I couldn't even talk. The cool thing is, afterwards you get a high feeling, as if it were some kind of drug. Anyway, the rest of the week I spent hanging around with Armando's youngest brother Marcelo (15), who I feel kind of looked up to me. Manuel, the second youngest, taught me about working with leather, i.e. making handicrafts such as satchels and bracelets. Whenever he was home we would do some jamming, a delight I haven't experienced for a long time. On Saturday the family took me to Guanajuato, the state's capital, probably the most enchanting city of the republic. Extremely colonial, cozy plazas, colourful markets, street artists, romantic squares and narrow alleyways. Definitely, I could live here. But before that we went to see a high Jebus statue on a hill. Honestly, I wasn't really that interested since the symbolic meaning of the place is nihil for me. The view from the top was worth it, but lunchtime was my personal highlight of the day. Litteraly, I ate like a pig. The place was kind of an open house construction with inside a woodfired stove where Doña Carmen prepared the dishes and freshly made corn tortillas on. It was no more than a buffet: you simply pick a plate, grab some warm tortillas and serve freely from a dozen typical Mexican dishes. Man, it was eaters' paradise. All that for just 40 pesos (2.40 EUR). But because the lady knows my family for over 12 years now she charged us 30 pesos for everything, including drinks. Filled up with for two days for little money, now that's happiness right there. Later that day we even went for tacos at a place where everything you ordered was 2x1. I didn't need to eat anymore, but refusing tacos al pastor (spit-frilled pork) with cubed onions, coriander leafs and sweat chili sauce is just too hard. If there's one strong memory of Mexico I'll have back in Belgium, it's its cuisine.

And so the week passed on with frightening intranscendence. Monday I said my goodbye to the family, the last ones I'll see on this trip. Now I'll be moving around in more southern areas, where I think I will feel more at home. We'll see.

My rearview mirror

There is always a moment on this journey that it's time to leave. Wherever I am, after a while, whether after three days or four weeks, I feel something in me that suggests to pack my bag and take the first bus to nowhere. Not necessarily because I'm fed up with the people that I'm staying with, or because the place doesn't appeal to me. Moreover, it's a sudden need to change my state from still to action. Also, I always fear that I'm becoming a burden to my hosts after a while and therefore want to leave before any annoyances emerge so to avoid leaving a negative impression. A feeling of incommodity, nervosity, impatience in my veins helps to sense the moment. It happened in Austin after staying 10 days, in San Francisco after three weeks and it is happening now. Today marks the fourth week of my stay in Guadalajara and I more than eager to leave the place. However, the family plays an extra role in this story. Before coming, I cherished a naïve expectation of reuniting with them and happily forget the disputes and disagreements of the past. Of course, that's a pretty stupid thought. Quickly I recalled the wretchedness of a vast family tree. Besides, I noticed how different people we all are and how little they understand my way of life. If it weren't for our bloodlines, I would have absolutely no attachment to them. Only a few truly understand me, or at least try to. I enjoyed seeing back my family, but I have to admit I've had better times on this trip with other, totally unknown people. If it weren't for Alejandra, I would have left much earlier. Now, after this weekend I feel it's necessary to say my goodbye. I've stayed for too long, and I'm starting to do more bad than good. I can't cope with, or better, I don't want to cope with negative vibrations. This traveling mode is starting to fail. I can't stay too long in one place anymore. Firstly, because of my plan of getting to Buenos Aires by the time August hits the bend, secondly because I've learned now that attaching to the people I meet isn't always good. I'm thinking of changing my ways. Roadtripping, bushopping, a different city each night. Truly on the road, not staring at the walls. I'll see whether I keep up the effort. As we all know, life is like a box of chocolates and who knows how tomorrow will look like.

I want to walk the hemisphere
A different city every night
Empty bottles of beer in galore
To follow the flow
See where it takes me
Little time to affectionate
Superficialness is inevitable
Thank you and goodbye
Sorry if I hurt

Dancing with Bacchus and his ecstatic satyrs

The weekend that followed New Year was really just a prolongation of Friday's bacchanal. On New Year's day, while Mariana, Alex and I were recovering my cousin Magu finally showed up. His face, hidden underneath large shades and a cap, revealed his Friday night story. As I mentioned in the previous post, he suffered the consequences of hitting a liter of scotch and eating roast meat afterwards, being the following: vomiting all over his room, slipping over it while running to the bathroom and his mother who devoutly cleaned the entire mess up. His excuse? It was the roast meat who had done him bad. Ah yes, I've looked similarly over the years as a result of eating 'bad meat'. Anyway, Magu and I had planned to go to Tepic, a city about forty minutes away from the Pacific coast. Before we could leave however, his parents obliged him to attend mass at church as form of penitence. I decided to join him so we could leave immediately right after. Supposedly he's a catholic, but in fact spends the whole time observing attractive women and making immature jokes. I actually enjoyed myself in church for the first time in years.

Now, in Tepic we were offered to stay at Imelda's house, the girlfriend of Carlos who's a friend of Magu's, who stayed for two weeks at my place in Antwerp while he was studying architecture in Milan. After an hour and half of cruising on the road (it felt great to move fast again, especially after so many weeks of sedentary life), we finally arrived at the state's capital Tepic. Honestly, a pretty ugly city. We didn't stay long at the house. Immediately Imelda teamed up two friends to join the nocturnal journey. Two very lovely women, Sinahi and Alejandra. Perhaps the most pleasant girls I've met since Monterrey. The gang and I hopped only three bars, although enough for me to end up plastered yet again. In the second bar, were delicious draft beer was served, I quickly hauled in two one-liter cups of dark beer. While ordering my second round to the waiter I accidently ordered another one, who did not understand my sign indicating 'thanks'. To my surprise Alejandra embraced it and followed me all the way till the end. In a way it's pitiful, although also hilarious and maybe even typical, but Bacchus brought us together that night. In Belgium it is sometimes said that if you find a woman who drinks beer, you don't need to ask for more. Well, that Saturday was something like that, although not entirely true. Luckily, I've had the opportunity to talk to Alejandra with a sober conscious and it turned out be quite interesting. On that saturday night there were a number of memorable moments. In the last bar for instance, Alejandra and I were 'talking' when she suddenly fell from her stool. Since I was nearing the state of complete inebriation, not only had I no strength anymore, I couldn't stop laughing at all. Together with two others of the gang we lifted her up, luckily with no serious consequences. It wasn't my fault, seriously. Then, while driving back home Alejandra gave me - or I aksed her, I can't remember - her cell phone number. I was done typing the number into the device when suddenly, during an uncomfortable silence in the car, only disturbed by the radio, I asked her: "So, uhm, what's your name again?". Hyena-like laughter followed the question. That's Magu's version of the story. I, however, believe I was asking for her last name. Unfortunately, no one digs it. Luckily, we were both drunk which alleviated the humiliating situation a little. Back at Imelda's place we closed the night off with another beer, where those assholes were filling up my glass while I was giving a drunk sermon. Of course I didn't notice it and they were pushing me to drink faster. That marked the end of the writer's nocturnal escapade. Magu assisted me with removing my shoes and covering me with a blanket. That's what I call cousinly love.

The next day there was no time to recover from the hangover. The same gang minus Alejandra and I had full-day excursion to the sea. We went to a beach close the San Blas that's not infected by large buildings such as hotel resorts, restaurants and apartments. It was my first visit to the sea on this trip and as I far as I can remember, I had never seen such a civilization- and tourist-free beach. Apart from some palapas, dwellings with roofs made out of dried palm leaves, there was no more human construction to be found. We drove our car up all the way till the sand just like the others. You could see families with their cars parked near the shore sitting around fireplaces drinking, eating and most of all enjoying the view. There were actually plants and birds and things around. Before I went for a swim I gazed to the surroundings on top of a rock, contemplating about what had happened the night before and more. A beach like that definitely lends itself for any kind of meditation, just like standing on top of a mountain. While I was standing on that rock I concluded that the latter attracts me more. I'm definitely a mountain. Or maybe I haven't witnessed a sea which evokes the same melancholic feeling like a view from a peak does. Anyway, we stayed there for while, ate a little in one of the palapas and drove to San Blas. There, in a bar at around three in the afternoon we were hitting some cocos locos, coconuts filled with an undefined mix of strong spirits and coconut milk. I felt Bacchus creeping from behing the door again. It didn't escalate like the day before, though. The rest of the day isn't much worth mentioning. Back at Imelda's house Magu, Sinahi and I went out for some pizza. After she left, the two of us drank a last beer in the dark on top of the house listening to mariachi songs about shattered love and drowning sorrows in tequila. Jolly. New Year's weekend had come to an end, and good too. My body was broken.

Another week passed by like a day with a few highlights here and there. Rendezvous with Alejandra, a family get-together, meeting Magu's friends,... Time is a terrible enemy. For the weekend that was to follow my cousin Andrea organized a trip to Tequila, birthplace of the homonymous spirit. The idea was to get together only the direct cousins, but everyone brought along a friend or partner. With a gang of about 13 people we stayed at an enormous genuine hacienda in middle of town. The house was easily over a hundred years old, including its furniture, paintings, books, etc. A true historical gem. My cousin Sergio's girlfriend Paulette - who is the living version of Minnie Mouse only without the big ears - her family owns the place. They use the hacienda only for recreational purposes and social gatherings of all kinds. With other words, we had a free place to crash and it wasn't the least. We only had to pay a ridiculous small amount to the lady who takes care of the house and even kooks for the guests. I've experienced some very interesting social differences while traveling and the weekend at the hacienda marked another highlight. Indeed, Sergio didn't choose the poorest girl on the street. Interesting how going with the flow takes you to places you wouldn't imagine going to. An interesting aspect of the house was its alleged hauntedness. Paulette had warned us in advance that many people had died in there and how sometimes creepy apparitions of a man in a black cape or a girl would hover around. There was also an American who had taken a picture of a mirror wherein the image of a deceased family member is visible. She told us that many hired shamans confirmed the spiritual gravity of the house. Well, for a sceptic, sober European like me it's hard to take those warnings serious. But here in Mexico, and perhaps in more Latin American countries, there exists a much stronger belief in the spiritual world and all of its manifestations to the human eye. Obviously, that creates a vicious circle where clever charlatans take advantage of easily deceived people who are ready to believe anything supernatural served on a plate.

Anyway, in Tequila my cousin Andrea proposed to the group to get on one of those ridiculous tourist cars that take you around town and to a couple of distilleries. I wasn't really fond of the idea, but we all accepted in the end and it turned out to be an entertaining ride. In the barrel-shaped tourist vehicle were already a few quiet families whose silence was abruptly disturbed by our tumult, mainly caused by my cousin Magu and his friend Carlos. It was hilarious alright, but I felt embarrassed sometimes because they wouldn't let the guide speak. Then, while driving the chauffeur - baptized by us as 'Paco' - would turn off the lights, crack the volume knob open and ignite the disco ball. Indeed, there was even a disco ball in that car. The tour consisted mainly of two parts: information about Tequila the town and the spirit, and samples. My noisy group of cousins and friends requested so stubbornly the tequila-tasting part that the guide actually gave up talking and led us straight to the bottles. It didn't stop there, though. In fact, it felt like going on an excursion with my class in secondary school: always making noise, never listening. I did however learned how to taste tequila properly, just like wine. Seriously.

After the party tour we bought everything needed to continue the night adequately: a five-liter plastic jar of white tequila, several bottles of Squirt, ice and crisps. The rest you can imagine. It was kind of the classic five-phase scheme of inebriation. The following morning I felt like absolute shit. The worst hangover I've had in years. All went well till I got out of bed, when yesterday's bacchanalia came to collect the price. Surprisingly, I was the only one in that lousy state. It was that bad that I couldn't even eat, just when the housekeeper prepared hot cakes. A truely sad moment. Oh well, that's a fair price to pay for alcohol-induced funtime. That sunday we rolled out with a relaxed visit to some beautiful springwater-based pools.

Good times, good times...

GDL homecoming

About three weeks ago I finally arrived at Guadalajara, my second hometown. From the very beginning of this trip various cousins have been asking me when I would come since they had all heard the Belgian cousin was coming back after four years. Four years. Even for me that's too long. As a kid my parents and I used to come over more frequently, sometimes leaving a year or two in between. Honestly, partly because of rebellion, partly because I was fed up doing the same thing each year, I stopped going. But about two years ago I started feeling that urge to look up the other part of my identity again, which I had been neglecting during the years in Belgium. My adultery-commiting uncle Nacho in Monterrey pointed it out to me perfectly: "La sangre llama" (Blood calls). And he's right. After staying for a long while at the other side of the Atlantic I couldn't stop thinking of Mexico. Its food, its music, its people and of course the family. Not that I get along well with all of them, because there are really way too much of them, but there are some family members who I hold close to my heart. So as you could imagine, the reunion with my closest cousins at the bus station was very gladdening. And even though it had been four years since I last stepped foot on Mexico, it didn't seem like that long when I saw their faces. It's interesting how long time lapses can be absolutely meaningless, sometimes. Sometimes, because in the course of the following weeks I would notice how different people we've all become, or at least me. Sometimes I have the impression that I'm the only one who's changed in comparison with the rest. For instance, they seem to take pleasure in denominating me a 'rebellious, tree-hugging hippy' for my ripped clothes, ideologies and inability to make plans. Most of all my clothing habits have become a target for mockery. My aunt Rosana offered me to buy a new pair pants, while aunt Elia - feeling so sorry for my paint-covered seven euro shoes - bought me a new pair for Christmas which I in the meantime have exchanged for a pretty cool sailor-like army bag. They weren't really my style, honestly. I haven't told her, though. She'll probably resent it, but, fuck it. I explicitly asked her not to buy me any clothes. Furthermore she doesn't understand I can't carry too much weight anymore. But anyway, it was nice to see them again.

After the hugging part of the reunion my cousins immediately started asking me after my plans, a word I haven't used a lot on this trip. Since I don't really have any, Elia's children decided I should stay at their house for the first couple of days. Oh wait, before I continue, let me outline my family tree briefly. Or else the story will get pretty confusing, even for me.

Okay, so as far as I'm informed the tree dates back to a mixed marriage of a pale-skinned man and an indigenous woman from the Purepecha tribe. I don't recall their names, nor how many children they had, but I know that one of them bore three sisters: Maria Teresa, Lurdes and Lupe. I'll take that as a starting point.

• My great-grandmother - who's name I don't remember - had three children, those who I mentioned above.

• Maria Teresa, better known as 'Tita', is my late grandmother. She and my also late grandfather had three daughters: Rosana, Elia and my mother Maria Teresa

• Rosana has three children: Mariana, Ignacio and Angel - referred to as the Diaz family. Elia likewise: Andrea, Sergio and Carolina - the Gonzalez family. My mother: me.

• But then my grandmother's sisters also procreated. Lupe only bore one daughter: Cecilia. She has been married for five years but no children have emerged from that marriage. Unlike Lurdes, who gave birth to no less than 12 children. About 15 years ago one of them died in a car accident. The remaining 11 bred like rabbits. I estimate a total of around 33 cousins from that family branch. Only four of them I know by name. The rest I hardly ever meet. They're referred to as the Villa family.

• Then there is my grandfather's family, who I barely know or see. And the prodigy of my grandmothers' cousins, the family-in-law of my aunts' husbands,...

• As you can see, my family tree gets pretty complicated after a while. So I'll leave it here for now. I hope you got a better understanding, because I don't, really.

So first I stayed at the house of the Gonzalez for a week, afterwards at the Diaz'. I spent the days visiting relatives, talking and eating with them. All good. On the first Tuesday my cousin Magu took me to a lucha libre competition, the Mexican equivalent of U.S.'s professional wrestling, but much more fun. Honestly, I don't really enjoy sports wherein two guys are beating the shit out of eachother, especially when they adopt sexually tinted combat moves that make it look like hardcore gay porn. But in lucha libre the whole folklore around the ring is more interesting than the fight itself. For instance, Magu and I had balcony tickets, there where supposedly the 'poor' are seated, whereas below near the ring the 'rich' people are. Between those two levels there is a constant verbal war wherein both parties insult eachother. This happens during the fights, which consequently makes it difficult to pay attention to the show. On the balcony, there's a group of people - mainly men - that dispose of a wide range of fixed shouts. For example, if close to the ring an attractive woman walks by the group will shout 'vuelta!', 'vuelta!' (turn!, turn!), which indicates that the woman has to make a little pirouette to show what she's got. Or if during a short break the showgirls appear from behing the scenes they are requested to jump to, you know, let it bounce. If she does so, she is rewarded with the unflattering comment: 'Esa sí es puta!', meaning 'That's a slut, alright!'. Also fellow spectators can be target of these mockings. If you by any chance look like a celebrity such as Justin Bieber or Austin Powers, you'll sure be the victim of the group's ridiculing. Unsurprisingly, so was I. My Tarahumara sandals, fuzzy hair and shorts gave them enough reason to call me Judas Thaddaeus and Barabas. That happened when we were leaving the coliseum. Just when I thought I was safeguarded from them, 20 men in line shouted 'Judas Tadeo, chinga a tu madre!' (J.T., fuck your mother). Oh well, I didn't mind. It was all part of the show.

The same week my cousin Andrea gave me my first paid job as a carrier and sticking adhesive labels on enveloppes. Nothing extroadinary, luckily I had enjoyable female company who alleviated the boring burden of our repetitive task. I had quite a time chatting with them, especially when they discovered my origin, and even more when I told I spoke a little bit of French. That really knocked them out. It wasn't the first time I noticed that speaking French here is considered extremely romanticm, mostly by women. An interesting contrast with Belgium, where in the north the language is looked at with digust. After the second workday the Gonzalez family organized a pre-Christmas dinner/posada for the direct family. Unfortunately, I had fallen ill badly that day which left me in no mood for a family get-together. A number of things made me feel annoyed about the whole thing, such as my uncle Jesus (Aunt Elia's husband) who over the years has grown very grumpy, grouchy. Well, I can't comment too much because of the public character of this journal. But in general I felt pretty bored at the dinner because I didn't stop comparing it with last year's Christmas weekend with friends in a mountain cot loaded with food and a shitload of alcohol, free from irritating jolly Christmas songs and traditional ornaments. That was the best profane Christmas ever. The whole religious aspect of the dinner at the Gonzalez made my eyes roll till they almost popped out. At one moment, Jesus was reading from the bible after which we all had to say thanks to niñito Dios (baby Jesus) for something we were grateful for. By the way, in the state of Jalisco the coming of Santa is remplaced by the birth of Jesus who for reasons unknown hands out gifts to the faithful. I didn't have anything specific to thank our friend Jebus for, but to avoid any desillusion amongst my family members I quickly invented something about being happy of being reunited after four years of absence. It actually hurt telling a lie of such proportion, as if my agnostic persona was trying to refrain me of saying bullshit. Don't get me wrong, I'm highly pleased to meet my beloved cousins, uncles and aunts again after so long. On of my objectives of this trip was to reunite for the urge to return was bigger than ever. But it wasn't Mini Jebus who paid my plane ticket to cross the Atlantic, it was my boss back in Belgium who sought after it. And my own self, my concious who said: "Fuck it, it's time leave this place." Not God, not his son, nor a flying spaghetti monster, me. Anyway, I tried to made to make the best out of it. Tolerance is a difficult but valuable virtue. Embarrassment kicked in however, when it was time to hand out the gifts. Taken as en easy but valid excuse, due to my limited travel budget I didn't have anything to give (not that I'm a splendid gift person...). To my surprise I received a number of gifts such as chocolates, cookies and even money. I could have crawled in my hole. They didn't mind I had nothing to exchange. With only your presence it's more than satisfactory, they told me. It's hard to believe, but they didn't make a deal out of it so neither did I.

Later that week I had to endure a second Christmas dinner, this time only with the Gonzalez family. It was alright: we had pizza, there were gifts, nice chattings. It didn't stop there, though. The next day I was invited to yet another Christmas meal at great-aunt Lupe's house. It wasn't dinner, but rather lunch, in Mexico called el recalentado (the warmin-up) referring to heating up the same dinner of the day before. That was about enough Christmas celebrations for me in a while. Hmm, I guess I'm turning slowly into a grynch after all. Not like in the movie, though. The best part of the whole celebration is getting together, eating multiple indigestions and drinking in the name of Our Lord Jebus, savior of this damned world. Well, there wasn't much drinking involved, but I ate like a horse.

Several days passed with interesting and less interesting facts worth mentioning until suddenly we hit the last day of the year again. Aah, New Year, my favourite celebration of the year. Much is discussed about this day, both negatively and positively. In its essence it's also no more than an excellent excuse to get together and feast. Although New Year is just another day in life - merely an exaggeration of a Friday night - it is the last day of yet another year which has to be said goodbye to with a bang. Particularly its naive positive message attracts me: try to do and/or be better with this change of year. It's a moment where everyone's rejoicing and confirming the presence of their loved ones. Obviously, all this has become much too forced, exaggerated, just like Christmas. And I believe few people actually try to make a difference with each new beginning of year. But that's not important. The part of getting together not only with friends and family, but with everyone in your neighbourhood is the most interesting, I believe. As I like it, massing up in a big city with loads of alcohol to watch the fireworks and afterwards party till sunrise. Of course, if you're not into big crowds and all that overdone shit, there's plenty of other possibilities. Anyway, none of what I just mentioned was to be found in the center of Guadalajara. The second biggest city of Mexico, ten in the evening and no life whatsoever. No kids playing with fireworks, no youngsters boozing up for midnight, no massive movements of people, no music, nothing. Absolutely nothing. The scene was sad. Because of a lack of money and disorganization my cousin Mariana, Alex a friend and I ended up roaming the the city for action. Being kind of our last resort, I didn't think it was such a bad idea until I witnessed the solitude on that last day of the year. Apparently, everyone ships of to the coast like Puerto Vallarta where all the buzz is. And also, according to Alex, seen that New Year has no religious background whatsoever there's no reason to celebrate it in Mexico, especially in conservative Guadalajara. The scene was rapidly turning less comforting. As the three of us were walking to a bar Mariana suggested, and eventually turned out to be closed, we witnessed how poorly crowded bars were closing its doors as midnight neared. Our situation was slowly moving from sad to pathetic. The only person who could have saved us was my cousin Magu, who called us to tell us that he was going to pick us up in an hour. Unfortunately, the man drank himself shitfaced on whiskey consequently slipping away on his own vomit in his room, so we were told the next day. And so, still in the believe Magu was coming to pick us up, we decided to walk in the first bar that comes up to have a beer until his arrival. While we were walking through a park I suddenly heard live music from a distance. As we were approaching the place turned out to be a rock bar barely filled till half and a band playing famous rock and metal songs on request. "Not bad", we thought. Mariana, Alex and I sat down, ordered a cubeta - litteraly a bucket of beer on ice - and didn't leave the place until the joint closed its doors. The new year was heralded with the band's rendition of Steppenwolf's 'Born To Be Wild', an excellent tune to start 2011. Great music, good beer, pleasant vibe, enjoyable company,... that's all it takes to make a succesful evening/night. We had forgotten about Magu, eventually.

Well, there's still more to be told but I'll leave it here for a moment. Although New Year was 10 days ago, I still wish you all a pleasant new beginning of 2011. Enjoy it, because the year's already almost over.