Mexico, tequilas & wicked bus rides.

My Mexican audience watched me in disbelief .
Surely, it was a misunderstanding. Surely, what I really was trying to say in my broken Spanish was: " I can not possibly live without it".
I repeated one more time, sheepishly: " yo no tomo tequila" (I do not drink tequila).
If you have ever spent some time in Mexico, you would know that such a statement is as bad as saying :" In my spare time I enjoy hunting baby squirrels, hang them upside down and  burn  them in front of their mothers".
In Mexico, you MUST drink tequila. If you like gin instead, you might as well pack your shit and leave the country  by night. You, buddy, are a traitor.
I discovered that is better to be a liar than a traitor. When I'm offered a shot of tequila (one every 8 hours, on an empty stomach, like some sort of medicine that will cure all aches and pains), I aim for my mouth but then shoot it my eyes then say :" oh, dear, I thought it was contact lenses solution!"
It burns like hell, but at least I won't have to leave the country by night.
I am just hoping that nobody realises that  I do not wear contact lenses after all.

I was born a worrier. I worry about absolutely anything. I always did.  I mean, during the Gulf war, I was the only teenager (well, outside of Iraq ) who kept an emergency suitcase under the bed. I worried some bomb might end up somehow in Italy. I worried I would have no time to pack my Nintendo Gameboy,  that the end was near. I wrote my will. That's how much I worried.
Since I ve been living in Mexico, I'm struggling to find things to worry over.
I used to worry about how my hair looked. Now I don't, because I know that no matter what I do to it,  with 100% humidity, my head will always look like an artichoke left on a bbq for too long.
I used to worry about make up. Now I don't. And not because I magically turned into Cindy Crawford after clearing customs. It's because any powder you carefully place on your shiny forehead, within minutes turns into mashed potato, sliding into your cleavage. The worry of having to explain to people why the hell I walk around covered in mashed potato is too much too handle.
I worried about my weight. Then I moved to a country where men call women "gorditas" (literally, "cute fatty") and the women take it as it s the nicest compliment, for God's sake.
Can you imagine the men in your own country addressing women in a club by saying :" Hey, Fatso, fancy a dance?".
To Mexican standards, I'm severely underweight. I worry they would see me as a traitor, so I'm trying to fix the problem by eating tacos for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Before I know it, I will be called "gordita " too!

One of my favourite activities (when I'm not drinking gin served in tequila glasses), is to go on bus rides. I sometimes go on a random buses, end up in some sort of far away Mexican slums and have to get an expensive taxi home. But the thrill! Oh, the thrill!
Buses are exactly what you would expect in a third world Country. Drivers often race with other bus drivers and as a passenger you worry for your life (but that could just be me).
In such distress, what is comforting is to be surrounded by all sorts of religious paraphernalia, reminding you that you are in good hands.
 "Jesus is with you" written on a sticker on the windscreen,  can have a very calming effect, especially when you worry that your head might soon be smashing against it.
But bus rides are not gloomy! They are fun! And they come with entertainment!
In Europe we have beggars. People who ask you to share your hard earned wage with them, offering nothing in return. (If not the illusion that karma will pay you back).
In Mexico, you have artists, who are happy to share their artistic skills with you, in exchange of one lousy pesito. I feel the need to add that most of the times these "artists" are utterly pathetic, but it s really not the point. It s the idea of "exchange" that I find inspirational.
The past three weeks on the R1 bus alone,  I saw a poet clown (the make up was not very effective, so I didn't give any spare change); an old man with a guitar playing the song "Bamba" (awfully out of tune, no spare change there, either) and then my personal highlight: the Mexican rapper. Usually the performance only lasts as long as the distance between two bus stops, but this dude stayed on rapping for 35 minutes.
To this guy I paid the entire bus fair. So he could get on another goddamn bus and rap somewhere else. Not only because he was utter shite. I worried he might distract the bus driver.
A race was going on, after all. I HAD to be on the winning bus.

Tinder me softly (based on a true story)

My greasy index finger betrayed me. This will teach me never to eat chunky chips AND use Tinder at the same time.
I accidentally swiped left.
My plan, however, was to swipe right at such speed that not even the fly in my background could suspect, for a second, that I fancied Steve. (real name)
As I lick my finger clean, tragedy strikes: me and Steve are a match.

Oh, God. Oh, well.

Quickly, it becomes apparent that me and Steve have something in common: we both like food.
I am very intuitive, I just need to look at someone's face to understand their likes or dislikes. I am gifted.
The fact that Steve's belly is desperately trying to escape a grease-smeared vest is a little give away.
The fact that, in his profile picture, he's savaging a kebab with the same intensity with which a shark slaughters a baby seal, is a slight confirmation.
My first impression is then totally confirmed by the sight of lamb juice dribbling down his chin (well, one of many, actually) and landing on a good pair of man boobs.
Steve loves his food. I'm on to a winner.
As I wonder what could possibly push a man with a healthy brain to believe that such image could turn any woman (who's not in the kebab industry) on, I receive a message. From him.

"Hey babes".
"Hey"
"Sup?"
"U mean soup?
"No, babes. Sup = what's up?"
"Ah"
"How are you babes? "
"After seeing your picture, hungry"

Steve unmatches me within seconds.
Oh, God. Oh, well.

I continue my "window shopping".
 I swipe right, then right, then right.
Until I see Tom's face. (real name).
He's just my type! He's blonde, with blue eyes, reassuringly chubby. Swipe right.
 In his profile picture, he's holding a puppy (95 points). In the background, a motorbike (85 points).
I am very intuitive. All I need to do is look at his face and know, just know that he's the one for me.
His eyes are kind, his face gentle, he's the kind of man who would never disappoint me and would always talk to me with the greatest of respect. I am gifted. I know these things.
 Im thinking of how to introduce him to my mum during the next family holiday, and the miracle happens. Me and Tom are a match! See? I told you!
As I start sketching my wedding dress , he sends me a message.

"Hey, you. Fancy a fuck?"

Oh God. Oh, well.

Plenty of fish in the goddamn sea! I think cheerfully to myself.
And I am right.

Karim (real name) is 39 y.o. and he's just my type. He's dark, with dark brown eyes, very slim. Swipe right.
In his profile picture, he's holding a glass of champagne (75 points). His background, a fancy restaurant (67 points).
We are an immediate match. Future is looking bright!

"Ho, hon, prety girl"

"......"

"prety girl, why no answerr, whot you are doing? Plaing with yoursel?"

"......"

"prety girl, you spit o swallow?"

"At your face, Karim? Most definitely, spit".

Oh, God. Oh, well.

When I start thinking that there is nobody, out there for me, I come across Jack (real name).
He is just my type. He's bold. And black. We match !And within seconds, he sends me a message.

"10 inches"

Oh, God. Oh well.

I take a little break from Tinder. I need to rest my index finger and finish my chunky chips.
I Google important things: "learn how to knit in 24 hours"; "how to survive the old age by being alone and unloved"; "grow your own vegetables despite not having a fucking garden"; "why do men over 40 always lose their hair but gain a belly". Nah. Back on Tinder.

As I am coming to the conclusion that maybe (just maybe), I shall not find the man of my dreams on Tinder, I see Joshua (real name). And he's just my type. He's ginger and his face is covered with freckles. In his profile picture, he's holding the hand of a little ginger girl (oh, shit. That's -90 points. He's got baggage). His background, an enormous villa (ding! ding! 110 points).
Of course, we are a match. Yawn.
Of course, a message arrives within seconds. Zzzzz.
Here we go again.

"Hi,there, darling. How very refreshing to come across a lady like you, with such an open, smiley face. I love the way you look at the camera, like you own the world!
I'm sorry if I sound pushy, but I really would like to meet you.
I am around your area tomorrow night. may I invite you for dinner? You chose time and place. Obviously it's my treat :)"

"Hey, Josh, are you fucking high on acid?"

"......"

"Joshua?"

"......"

"Joshua?! Im free, FREE tomorrow!"

"......"

"Joshua"

Oh, God. Oh, well.