Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Do you Speak Fluent Hungarian, Macedonian, Dutch, Slovene, Bosnian and Spanish?
Looking for a job is frustrating, but also, at times, hillarious. Take for example, this advertisement (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wl/jobs/JS_JobSearchDetail?jobid=27889751&jobSummaryIndex=0&agentID=&xfeed=1&tid=244&wpmk=MK0000004&GCID=C17812x033-Other&keyword=no_keyword) for an analyst position at Georgetown University's Imaging Science and Information Center. Did you notice this kicker of a sentence: "Excellent writing skills in Hungarian, Dutch, Macedonian, Bosnian, Slovenian, Spanish, and excellent communication skills, and self-motivation are required." OK, I think I have the communication skills and self-motivation part covered- and i feel fairly confident that anyone that speaks all of those languages is fairly self-motivated and has communication skills- but is there any human being on earth that can speak all of these disparate languages? There are definitely Macedonians who can also speak Bosnian and Slovene, and vice versa- but can those people also speak Dutch, Hungarian and Spanish? And are they looking for a low paying job at Georgetown University?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Warm Tropical Breezes Inside a Mexican Taxi Cab
This is a story about air-conditioning, or, more broadly, an episode from one day of our recent trip to Mexico that highlights some of the cultural differences that exist between our two nations. It all started with a Martin Lawrence movie. A really bad one (are there any other kind?). My wife, Jen, my 17-month-old son, Leo, and I were on a Primera Plus “first class” bus that had originated in Guanajuato and was heading to San Miguel de Allende. “First Class” in this context meant semi-functional air conditioning, no livestock visible in the cabin, brightly upholstered seats largely free of vomit stains, a free boxed lunch complete with a Frankenstein like mystery meat sandwich on months old knock-off wonder bread, and “entertainment.” By “entertainment” I mean six TV screens placed strategically around the bus so that anyone attempting to read, sleep, think, converse, or simply hide from the onslaught of programming would surely give up in frustration.
The ear-splitting volume of the film on offer was the first thing I noticed when we boarded the bus. The movie- it may have been “Rebound” but I can’t be sure- was already in progress, and yet, despite all the noise, most of the handful of passengers seemed to be either sleeping or trying to sleep. Most American movies are dubbed into Spanish for the Mexican market, and this one was no different. Jen and I were hoping that Leo would be able to nap on the 75 minute ride to San Miguel- we were planning just a day trip and hoped a nap would be just the thing to get him through the experience. I saw our bus driver chatting away with another driver amicably outside- despite the fact that it was already ten minutes past our scheduled departure time- and asked him in broken Spanish if we could lower the volume of the film. He did not say “si” or “no”, he simply looked at me dismissively.
I can’t be sure that the driver actually increased the volume of the film, once he finally deigned to board and commence our trip, but it sure seemed that way as I slumped down in my seat and tried to hide from Martin Lawrence and company. Unable to read, sleep, or hear much of what my wife was saying, I succumbed and watched a bit of the film. My Spanish is quite basic, but I got the gist- Martin was the coach of some kind of youth sports team that, despite low expectations, had overcome obstacles and led his team to an improbable victory over a better opponent. When the closing credits came on, I nearly cried tears of joy- not because I was so happy for Martin’s team, but because I thought that there wouldn’t be enough time left in the journey for the driver to inflict another film on us.
We enjoyed perhaps 60 seconds of blissful silence- by this time my son had fallen asleep but I was too agitated to do anything more than squirm in my seat- before our reverie came to a crashing halt as the sadistic driver treated us to Mexican cartoons at a volume that even the hard of hearing would object to. I appealed to a Mexican businessman who was sitting across from us. “Yes, its too loud,” he conceded, “but the driver is in control- there is nothing we can do!” I had been hoping he’d take the issue up with the driver, but his fatalistic approach to the problem reminded me of the difference between the American approach to nuisances and the approach you encounter in many other countries around the world, Mexico included. Americans think that they can at least endeavor to resolve any problem- be it a minor discomfort or a major irritant, but in many other parts of the world, the attitude is something akin to- let’s just grin and bear it, life is tough and we have no expectation of comfort.
I’ve always disliked bus travel, as I find it confining and rarely comfortable- but being forced to listen to loud Spanish language cartoons elevated my distaste for bus travel to new heights. I resolved to find a different way- any way- to return to Guanajuato later that afternoon.
Our knight in shining armor arrived in the form of a gleaming new VW taxi that took us from the bus station into the center of San Miguel de Allende. By this point in our Mexican adventure, we had traveled in at least a dozen Mexican taxi’s in Puerto Vallarta, Guadalajara and Guanajuato, and had only been in a cab with A/C on one occasion. Nearly all the cabs we’d been in were the Mexican equivalent of a mid to late 80’s Nissan Sentra, but this was something akin to a brand new VW Jetta. The English-speaking driver (another first), one Senor Gonzalez had his own business card and boasted that he could take us back to Guanajuato- in complete silence- for only about $10 more than the bus tickets would cost us.
San Miguel de Allende has been accused of being essentially an Epcot-center-like pavilion of Mexican culture, long on color and charm but short on authenticity. The very fact that we’d been picked up by an English speaking, air-con using driver in a new car seemed a testament to this notion, but we weren’t complaining. There are so many elderly American snowbirds in San Miguel, that it does rather have the vibe of an American retirement community, albeit one with substantially more Mexican restaurants, souvenir stands and aggressive beggars. It is still a very pleasant place- with interesting churches, good food, and colonial-era architecture.
Leo had seen enough of San Miguel after a few hours, so we asked the waiter at Ten Ten Pie, a nice little taco place near the cathedral, to call Senor Gonzalez to come pick us up in his dream machine. Twenty minutes later a dilapidated old Nissan Sentra came sputtering up to the restaurant. Much to my dismay, he was looking for us. Senor Gonzalez was sick, he claimed. I pointed to the air vents in the car and asked if he had A/C. It was about 90 degrees and the oppressive sun had worn all three of us down. The driver assured us that he had A/C and turned it on full blast to demonstrate. Nothing but an avalanche of very hot air came out. Just wait, it takes time he said.
Five minutes into our trip, we were still broiling. It was clear that our new ride had no A/C. Suddenly the whole notion of paying more to take a taxi back to Guanajuato didn’t seem so ingenious any more. For all of Primera Plus’s faults- and there were many- they did at least have A/C. I tried to calculate what was preferable- a silent, yet sweltering ride in a battered old cab, or a cooler, noiser ride on a bus.
“Call Senor Gonzalez and ask him if you can use his car to drive us,” I asked.
The driver called someone, but claimed this was impossible. Irritated at this obvious bait and switch scam, and with beads of sweat poring down my back, I instructed our driver to take us to the San Miguel bus station. He very grudgingly complied, but when we pulled up, the place seemed deserted, so I instructed Jen and Leo to wait in the car while I jumped out, and determined that the next bus for Guanajuato left in nearly two hours on the dreaded Primera Plus line. So the option was continue on with an angry driver in his sweltering hot car in the middle of the afternoon in the scorching sun, or sit with a crabby, tired 17 month old child in an un-air-conditioned bus station for nearly two hours only to wait for a bus that would no doubt feature blaring, bad American movies dubbed into Spanish, and perhaps Mexican cartoons as well.
It was a no brainer- so I sheepishly told the drive to take us on to Guanajuato. He’d had it with us by that point, but wasn’t about to kick us out of his cab either. As soon as we got outside of town and our driver was able to put the peddle to the metal, I immediately began to question my decision to entrust this man with our lives. A confluence of factors seemed to be working against us- our driver was clearly insane to begin with, he was trying to make up time lost on the bus station detour, and he was obviously angry with us and worn down from my complaints about the lack of A/C and the bait and switch auto scheme.
As unpleasant as the trip to San Miguel had been on Primera Plus, I had not noticed how curvy the road was. I’ve had many bad cab driver in my life- Cairo certainly stands out as one place where I remember particularly risky drivers- but our driver on this afternoon was driving with a vengeance- accelerating into hair raising curves on lonely, high elevation roads with no guard rails. I looked in the back seat and saw that Leo was sleeping on his mother’s lap (no seat belts in the back seat), his hair fluttering in the hot breeze that whipped in through the open windows. I couldn’t help but think of what an irresponsible parent I was, and how miserable it would be to die in a musty old Nissan Sentra on one of Mexico’s forlorn byways. Instead of asking him to slow down- I made a show of clutching onto the hand rests when he’d fly around a dangerous curve at top speed, and occasionally would hold my hands up in front of my chest, as if to brace myself for a trip through the windshield.
Despite how fast the driver was going, and how he’d aggressively pass two or three trucks at a time- often on blind curves and uphill portions of the road- the ride seemed to be taking forever. My t-shirt was soaked with perspiration and no matter which way we turned, I always seemed to have the sun beating right on me. We passed through a dry, mocha colored, desolate landscape- if the car broke down, we’d be stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no garages around for many miles. It looked like the kind of place where one could easily die of thirst.
Miraculously we reached what seemed to be the outskirts of Guanajuato alive, but just as I began to practically taste the comforts of our hotel room, the sounds of a police siren poisoned my brightening mood. The driver pulled to the side of the road and turned off the motor. I was literally baking in the hot sun, and braced myself for a lengthy delay. Even though I was obviously displeased by the turn of events, I felt somewhat vindicated by the police action- our man had been driving like a maniac and richly deserved to be ticketed.
My hombre stepped out of the cab and met two officers just a few feet behind the car. I could see them in the mirror and could make out some of the Spanish language conversation that ensued. The police claimed he was going 90 in a 40 zone, although I think their estimate of his speed was charitable. Our driver unleashed his entire afternoon of frustration on the cops- the word “gringos” was thrown about liberally, and each time he used it, I detected looks of empathy and knowing nods of concern from the officers. I picked up enough of the Spanish to understand the crux of his defense: he had no choice but to speed because the gringos were angry about his non-functioning air conditioning. The whole thing was our fault. After making his closing arguments, the driver jogged back to the cab, grabbed a fistful of pesos ( I couldn’t tell how much) from a secret hiding spot underneath the wheel. The cops were paid, and off we went, not two minutes after the initial stop.
The driver peeled out, squealing tires and all, and zoomed off, leaving the cops in a storm of dust. If he was angry before, now he was livid, and seemed determined to drive us over a cliff, or perhaps into a tree. Somehow we arrived in the city intact, and it was obvious that the driver had no idea how to find our hotel, so I gladly agreed to get out and walk the rest of the way-so relieved was I to be alive and out of his greenhouse like sweatshop of a car. I paid the man and he roared off without comment or thanks. He was so mad he could hardly look us in the eyes. Whatever profit he was to make from the trip, had surely been eroded by the bribe he had to pay to mollify the police. Somehow, despite the fact that our driver had been going at least twice as fast as the bus, it had actually taken us 10 minutes longer to ride in his cab than it had to take the bus. I can only guess that he took a more circuitous route to avoid tolls.
Looking back on the incident- and I began to do so as soon as we left his cab- I couldn’t help but feel compelled by the fact that our disparate cultures and upbringings caused us both to conclude that we were the aggrieved parties. We were angry because we’d negotiated a price to ride in comfort with A/C in a new car, and that wasn’t we got. In his mind, he surely thought- I ride around in this old car without A/C every day, why can’t they just deal with it for an hour or so? The sun also probably did not feel that hot to him- he was used to it, and was not sweating like I was. Because we were on vacation, we felt as though we were entitled to a relaxing, comfortable trip, but certainly his perspective was: what do these rich gringos have to complain about? They are enjoying a nice holiday while I’m stuck here driving in this shitty old cab to make a living. In some ways, we were both right, but what I can definitively conclude from the experience is that comfort is always relative, safety is a state of mind, and silence is golden. Especially when Martin Lawrence is involved.
The ear-splitting volume of the film on offer was the first thing I noticed when we boarded the bus. The movie- it may have been “Rebound” but I can’t be sure- was already in progress, and yet, despite all the noise, most of the handful of passengers seemed to be either sleeping or trying to sleep. Most American movies are dubbed into Spanish for the Mexican market, and this one was no different. Jen and I were hoping that Leo would be able to nap on the 75 minute ride to San Miguel- we were planning just a day trip and hoped a nap would be just the thing to get him through the experience. I saw our bus driver chatting away with another driver amicably outside- despite the fact that it was already ten minutes past our scheduled departure time- and asked him in broken Spanish if we could lower the volume of the film. He did not say “si” or “no”, he simply looked at me dismissively.
I can’t be sure that the driver actually increased the volume of the film, once he finally deigned to board and commence our trip, but it sure seemed that way as I slumped down in my seat and tried to hide from Martin Lawrence and company. Unable to read, sleep, or hear much of what my wife was saying, I succumbed and watched a bit of the film. My Spanish is quite basic, but I got the gist- Martin was the coach of some kind of youth sports team that, despite low expectations, had overcome obstacles and led his team to an improbable victory over a better opponent. When the closing credits came on, I nearly cried tears of joy- not because I was so happy for Martin’s team, but because I thought that there wouldn’t be enough time left in the journey for the driver to inflict another film on us.
We enjoyed perhaps 60 seconds of blissful silence- by this time my son had fallen asleep but I was too agitated to do anything more than squirm in my seat- before our reverie came to a crashing halt as the sadistic driver treated us to Mexican cartoons at a volume that even the hard of hearing would object to. I appealed to a Mexican businessman who was sitting across from us. “Yes, its too loud,” he conceded, “but the driver is in control- there is nothing we can do!” I had been hoping he’d take the issue up with the driver, but his fatalistic approach to the problem reminded me of the difference between the American approach to nuisances and the approach you encounter in many other countries around the world, Mexico included. Americans think that they can at least endeavor to resolve any problem- be it a minor discomfort or a major irritant, but in many other parts of the world, the attitude is something akin to- let’s just grin and bear it, life is tough and we have no expectation of comfort.
I’ve always disliked bus travel, as I find it confining and rarely comfortable- but being forced to listen to loud Spanish language cartoons elevated my distaste for bus travel to new heights. I resolved to find a different way- any way- to return to Guanajuato later that afternoon.
Our knight in shining armor arrived in the form of a gleaming new VW taxi that took us from the bus station into the center of San Miguel de Allende. By this point in our Mexican adventure, we had traveled in at least a dozen Mexican taxi’s in Puerto Vallarta, Guadalajara and Guanajuato, and had only been in a cab with A/C on one occasion. Nearly all the cabs we’d been in were the Mexican equivalent of a mid to late 80’s Nissan Sentra, but this was something akin to a brand new VW Jetta. The English-speaking driver (another first), one Senor Gonzalez had his own business card and boasted that he could take us back to Guanajuato- in complete silence- for only about $10 more than the bus tickets would cost us.
San Miguel de Allende has been accused of being essentially an Epcot-center-like pavilion of Mexican culture, long on color and charm but short on authenticity. The very fact that we’d been picked up by an English speaking, air-con using driver in a new car seemed a testament to this notion, but we weren’t complaining. There are so many elderly American snowbirds in San Miguel, that it does rather have the vibe of an American retirement community, albeit one with substantially more Mexican restaurants, souvenir stands and aggressive beggars. It is still a very pleasant place- with interesting churches, good food, and colonial-era architecture.
Leo had seen enough of San Miguel after a few hours, so we asked the waiter at Ten Ten Pie, a nice little taco place near the cathedral, to call Senor Gonzalez to come pick us up in his dream machine. Twenty minutes later a dilapidated old Nissan Sentra came sputtering up to the restaurant. Much to my dismay, he was looking for us. Senor Gonzalez was sick, he claimed. I pointed to the air vents in the car and asked if he had A/C. It was about 90 degrees and the oppressive sun had worn all three of us down. The driver assured us that he had A/C and turned it on full blast to demonstrate. Nothing but an avalanche of very hot air came out. Just wait, it takes time he said.
Five minutes into our trip, we were still broiling. It was clear that our new ride had no A/C. Suddenly the whole notion of paying more to take a taxi back to Guanajuato didn’t seem so ingenious any more. For all of Primera Plus’s faults- and there were many- they did at least have A/C. I tried to calculate what was preferable- a silent, yet sweltering ride in a battered old cab, or a cooler, noiser ride on a bus.
“Call Senor Gonzalez and ask him if you can use his car to drive us,” I asked.
The driver called someone, but claimed this was impossible. Irritated at this obvious bait and switch scam, and with beads of sweat poring down my back, I instructed our driver to take us to the San Miguel bus station. He very grudgingly complied, but when we pulled up, the place seemed deserted, so I instructed Jen and Leo to wait in the car while I jumped out, and determined that the next bus for Guanajuato left in nearly two hours on the dreaded Primera Plus line. So the option was continue on with an angry driver in his sweltering hot car in the middle of the afternoon in the scorching sun, or sit with a crabby, tired 17 month old child in an un-air-conditioned bus station for nearly two hours only to wait for a bus that would no doubt feature blaring, bad American movies dubbed into Spanish, and perhaps Mexican cartoons as well.
It was a no brainer- so I sheepishly told the drive to take us on to Guanajuato. He’d had it with us by that point, but wasn’t about to kick us out of his cab either. As soon as we got outside of town and our driver was able to put the peddle to the metal, I immediately began to question my decision to entrust this man with our lives. A confluence of factors seemed to be working against us- our driver was clearly insane to begin with, he was trying to make up time lost on the bus station detour, and he was obviously angry with us and worn down from my complaints about the lack of A/C and the bait and switch auto scheme.
As unpleasant as the trip to San Miguel had been on Primera Plus, I had not noticed how curvy the road was. I’ve had many bad cab driver in my life- Cairo certainly stands out as one place where I remember particularly risky drivers- but our driver on this afternoon was driving with a vengeance- accelerating into hair raising curves on lonely, high elevation roads with no guard rails. I looked in the back seat and saw that Leo was sleeping on his mother’s lap (no seat belts in the back seat), his hair fluttering in the hot breeze that whipped in through the open windows. I couldn’t help but think of what an irresponsible parent I was, and how miserable it would be to die in a musty old Nissan Sentra on one of Mexico’s forlorn byways. Instead of asking him to slow down- I made a show of clutching onto the hand rests when he’d fly around a dangerous curve at top speed, and occasionally would hold my hands up in front of my chest, as if to brace myself for a trip through the windshield.
Despite how fast the driver was going, and how he’d aggressively pass two or three trucks at a time- often on blind curves and uphill portions of the road- the ride seemed to be taking forever. My t-shirt was soaked with perspiration and no matter which way we turned, I always seemed to have the sun beating right on me. We passed through a dry, mocha colored, desolate landscape- if the car broke down, we’d be stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no garages around for many miles. It looked like the kind of place where one could easily die of thirst.
Miraculously we reached what seemed to be the outskirts of Guanajuato alive, but just as I began to practically taste the comforts of our hotel room, the sounds of a police siren poisoned my brightening mood. The driver pulled to the side of the road and turned off the motor. I was literally baking in the hot sun, and braced myself for a lengthy delay. Even though I was obviously displeased by the turn of events, I felt somewhat vindicated by the police action- our man had been driving like a maniac and richly deserved to be ticketed.
My hombre stepped out of the cab and met two officers just a few feet behind the car. I could see them in the mirror and could make out some of the Spanish language conversation that ensued. The police claimed he was going 90 in a 40 zone, although I think their estimate of his speed was charitable. Our driver unleashed his entire afternoon of frustration on the cops- the word “gringos” was thrown about liberally, and each time he used it, I detected looks of empathy and knowing nods of concern from the officers. I picked up enough of the Spanish to understand the crux of his defense: he had no choice but to speed because the gringos were angry about his non-functioning air conditioning. The whole thing was our fault. After making his closing arguments, the driver jogged back to the cab, grabbed a fistful of pesos ( I couldn’t tell how much) from a secret hiding spot underneath the wheel. The cops were paid, and off we went, not two minutes after the initial stop.
The driver peeled out, squealing tires and all, and zoomed off, leaving the cops in a storm of dust. If he was angry before, now he was livid, and seemed determined to drive us over a cliff, or perhaps into a tree. Somehow we arrived in the city intact, and it was obvious that the driver had no idea how to find our hotel, so I gladly agreed to get out and walk the rest of the way-so relieved was I to be alive and out of his greenhouse like sweatshop of a car. I paid the man and he roared off without comment or thanks. He was so mad he could hardly look us in the eyes. Whatever profit he was to make from the trip, had surely been eroded by the bribe he had to pay to mollify the police. Somehow, despite the fact that our driver had been going at least twice as fast as the bus, it had actually taken us 10 minutes longer to ride in his cab than it had to take the bus. I can only guess that he took a more circuitous route to avoid tolls.
Looking back on the incident- and I began to do so as soon as we left his cab- I couldn’t help but feel compelled by the fact that our disparate cultures and upbringings caused us both to conclude that we were the aggrieved parties. We were angry because we’d negotiated a price to ride in comfort with A/C in a new car, and that wasn’t we got. In his mind, he surely thought- I ride around in this old car without A/C every day, why can’t they just deal with it for an hour or so? The sun also probably did not feel that hot to him- he was used to it, and was not sweating like I was. Because we were on vacation, we felt as though we were entitled to a relaxing, comfortable trip, but certainly his perspective was: what do these rich gringos have to complain about? They are enjoying a nice holiday while I’m stuck here driving in this shitty old cab to make a living. In some ways, we were both right, but what I can definitively conclude from the experience is that comfort is always relative, safety is a state of mind, and silence is golden. Especially when Martin Lawrence is involved.
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