Guadalajara 2019 - Luche Libre

Mexican wrestling, known as Luche or Luche Libre in the local tongue, whenever I have researched a trip to Mexico it is listed by many as a "must see". I had, on previous visits, never been able to work it into my plans. On this trip I was determined not to miss it. 

In Guadalajara the shows are scheduled every Tuesday and Sunday. I Uber to the rather sketchy area where the arena is located. The driver asks me a question, in Spanish, which ends with the word Coliseo, the name of the arena. I conclude, due to the final word, he is asking me if I am headed to the arena. "Si" I reply. "Ah Luche", he says with a grin.

There is a festival atmosphere in the open air entrance to the arena. Trademark Luchador masks are being sold by entrepreneurs carrying tall wooden poles with row after row of the colorful masks hanging from crossbars. People are laughing and joking, intent on having a good time. I purchase my ticket, cash only, front row, it costs the equivalent of about $17. I, as everyone else entering the arena, am patted down by security as I go through the turnstiles, enter the indoor portion of the arena and find my seat. 

Due to the erratic nature of my travel over the last 2 days I had not had an opportunity to eat correctly and am also somewhat dehydrated. I purchased a very full cup of very tart melon, one of a number of offerings of food and drink carried by vendors working the growing crowd.

The lights dim and  a row of women in skimpy attire and ludicrously high platform shoes form a line on one side of a ramp leading from backstage to the ring in the center of the room. A chubby announcer in a too small suit enters the ring, grabs a mike and the fun begins. As the wrestlers are announced they run down the ramp, jump into the ring, leap onto the ropes by the turnbuckles and raise their arms in the air to the cheers, and occasionally jeers, of the audience. It is a spectacle of bright, colored, flashing lights, bright, sometimes ridiculous costumes and admirable athleticism. The performers, really, this is as carefully choreographed as a ballet, range from paragons of rippling, muscled masculinity to slightly overweight types one might expect to see drinking too much beer in a neighborhood bar. The "good guys", whose corner I was seated behind, trended toward the aforementioned muscled types. They displayed their gym built bodies and bodacious backsides in colorful tights or trunks, eschewing unnecessary clothing items such as shirts. The "bad guys" tended to be more full figured, their darker and more modest attire a sharp counterpoint to the flashy, more revealing fashion choices of their counterparts.

They flip, flop and chop each other. Even though the matches are choreographed, there are loud bangs as large backs make contact with the floor of the ring and occasional thwacks as solid pecs are struck by meaty forearms. Much of the action takes place outside of the ring. As the Luchadors, as the wrestlers are refereed to, "throw" each other through the ropes of the ring, they follow them and continue to do battle within a foot of the attendees in the front row or chase each other up the aisles. The matches are fast paced and occasionally chaotic. They follow one after another at almost breakneck speed. They are silly, entertaining and a surprising amount of fun. The costumes are a kaleidoscope of capes, some looking as if they were made from drapes, metallic warm up jackets with the name of the wrestler emblazoned on its back, worn with matching tights and boots, ass hugging trunks and of course the ubiquitous masks. One, billed as a sort of jungle man, appeared in leopard print trunks and horns in his long, curly mass of hair. He did remove the horns before the match began.

A great time was being had by all until.......

Guadalajara 2019 - Guadalajara Bound, Finally

I wake up in the Super 8, shower, dress, pack my carry on and head downstairs to the usual "breakfast included" breakfast. The eggs are cold, the rolls are frozen, the yogurt is o.k., it's kind of hard to screw that up. I am instantly convinced that the other diners voted for Trump, they also talk funny. Southerners sometimes have a graceful drawl, Texans twang like an out of tune guitar. As we ride together in the airport shuttle I discover, to my horror, that this loud, twangy group are on my flight. Fortunately the flight is only half full so I only need to deal with the obese, unkempt men, one wearing the worst, most unconvincing toupee I think I have ever seen and women with hard hat hard hair in the shuttle.

The flight is uneventful, 2 hours pass quickly, due in large part to the games you can play on the screen mounted on the seat in front of you. Immigration and customs are a fairly rapid affair and at around 4 I am dropped off at the guesthouse, a mere 20 hours after my initial, expected arrival time.

The owner of the establishment provides me with volumes of information in a record amount of time. The guesthouse is a hacienda, built around 1880, the rooms situated around a courtyard. A lovely fountain, water jets out of ceramic faces set in the wall into a pool below, graces the ground floor. Mexican tile trim, traditional Mexican furnishings and painted ceilings give the building a historic, which it is, charming, south of the border feel. Large terra cotta jars grace the public areas. Glass plates with swirls of color, produced locally, decorate the walls. Plants in colorful pots line the second floor railing and sit on shelves set in among the faces of the fountain. In my room the ceiling is painted to look like a blue sky full of wispy, white clouds. A large set of french doors with multi colored panes, which look out on the courtyard below, takes up much of one wall. Reproduction light fixtures provide illumination. The colorful sink and accessories are also traditional, superb examples of Mexican craftsmanship and locally sourced. The attention to detail is impressive. I unpack and begin to plan my activities during my visit.

Guadalajara 2019 - Rambling Thoughts While Air Borne

There are thoughts and experiences that are common and reoccurring to me during plane travel. Inside the cramped confines of today's "airbus" concept you taxi away from the gate at a speed approaching the crawl of a car trapped in a rush hour commute. Then the giant metal tube you sit within gains speed and somehow, although it has been explained to me I still do not fully understand it, leaves the ground and flies. Clouds take on the appearance of soft snowdrifts. Sunsets, which when viewed from the ground fill the sky, are seen as thin bright ribbons of color. When flying at night you see clusters of light, varying in sizes, which are cities and town. The illuminated grids become fainter and fainter as they ripple out to suburbs, exburbs and then dark rural blackness. Air pressure changes, your ears "pop'.

Of course the class system still exists. There is the upper crust, first class, with their more commodious seats and pampered service. Not to mention the drawn curtain that exists to separate "us" from "them". Us, the great unwashed, families, budget minded tourists and business travelers not yet high enough on the food chain to sit in front of the curtain with the titans. They dream of the day when they will be able to travel two abreast instead of three.

And me, holding my left elbow close to my body as I write in my southpaw script, trying, often in vain, to not bump the person seated next to me as I set rambling thoughts to paper.

Guadalajara 2019 - A Night in a Dallas Airport Super 8 Hotel or I'm Trying to Get to Mexico and This is as Far as I Got

I struggled with my bags through 3 inches of fresh snow to get to the airport. I checked the flight when I woke up, I checked the flight before I left the house, despite the weather the flight was still scheduled to leave on time. I received an email during the bus ride to the airport, the flight was delayed by 50 minutes threatening my chances of making my connecting flight in Dallas. I conferred with the helpful woman at the desk when I arrived at O'hare. After looking at alternatives we realized due to the brutal weather conditions that had settled over Chicago my best bet was to get to Dallas, hope I could connect and if not figure it out from there. While we were talking the flight was delayed another 20 minutes making the connection virtually impossible.  By the time I got to the gate the plane, originally scheduled to depart at 1:10 was now leaving at 2:45. I received an email at the gate informing me that the airline had rebooked me on a flight out of Dallas the following morning. A helpful gate agent printed the new boarding pass for me. I phoned the guesthouse in Guadalajara letting them know that instead of checking in that evening I would not be getting there till the following afternoon. Back to the gate, the flight was now delayed till 4. I got on my phone and perused hotels in the Dallas airport area. I settled on a Super 8 with an affordable price and a shuttle to and from the airport.

I read, my husband had picked up a promotional copy of a novel I had tossed in my bag at the last minute, it is not bad sci fi. I write, I eat half of one of the sandwiches my husband had thoughtfully prepared for me. I discretely check out the short, muscular guy sitting across from me wondering how he got his large thighs into the skin tight jeans he is wearing. I wonder how he is managing to sit down in them. Later I discover he is a rather affable sort, we exchange light conversation as we are both in the predicament of having to check our carry ons at the gate rather than carry them on.

They announced that the plane is en route to O'hare. It arrives, we board and we sit another 45 minutes. The captain comes over the intercom system explaining that the extreme cold is making the deicing of the plane problematic. Around 5 we are finally  in the air. 

I look at my fellow passengers. I notice that a majority of them appear to be one time defensive football linemen gone to seed. I notice that 2 of the largest ones are seated next to me making the already cramped conditions of the plane even worse.

Finally we arrive in Dallas. I check on my bag which is spending the night at the airport to be put on the plane in the morning. The baggage agent refers to it as "the bag that is going to Mexico". My bag has a title. The van picks me up and I am deposited at the door of a faceless concrete structure, my home for the night. I check in, assist a tiny woman on to the elevator who is attempting to maneuver a bag as large as herself and take a look around my no frills room. I check the bed for bedbugs, a ritual I have become accustomed to in our post DDT world. There was a nice body creme in the room which I used after my shower in the morning. My toiletries, except for my toothbrush and toothpaste, were spending the night at the airport with my bag.

The room is a bit chilly. The view is of the almost identical motel which sits across the parking lot. The breakfast, included with the room, is mediocre but edible. The water pressure in the shower is not great and the mineral laden Texas water has been softened giving it that unsettling silk like feel. All that being said it was cheap and beat the alternative of sleeping propped up in a chair at the airport.

I felt a certain sense of pride in my resourcefulness and resiliency. Keeping my cool and utilizing only my phone I managed to stitch together a plan to keep a roof over my head and eventually make it to my destination despite the obstacles thrown in my path. My younger self might have crumpled and had a meltdown during the arduous process, but, I kept a steely reserve and made it though. With my age comes a realization that life sometimes creates hills which, once ascended, leave you stronger as you go down the other side of them.

Rage

I scream into a dark void.

Children being taken from their parents. Refugees fleeing violence and terror find their families torn apart as they seek safety in what was once a country of promise. No records are kept so the reunification of these families, even in their home countries, may never be possible.

I scream into a darkening void.

A man, put into power by a minority of the people, insulting our allies while cavorting with oppressive dictators.

I scream into a void.

I find myself glad sometimes that I am in the final third of my life. I consider what it would be like to witness this madness in my youth, that hate and divisiveness may be all my future holds.

I scream into the dark void.

A man, put into power by a minority of the people, dividing us. Pitting citizen against citizen, us against our allies, screaming and lying to his minions. Demanding they be allowed weapons of war. Demanding that laws be created to reflect their beliefs, stifling the beliefs and trampling the rights and freedoms of others.

I scream into an increasingly dark void.

I do not cry. Mine is not the sadness of tears. It is the sadness of fear and dread. The fear and dread of increasing hate, of the erosion of liberties. Fear of desecration of the planet we share. Fear of growing economic disparity, of creating a permanent servant class scratching through the cast off remains of the wealthy to survive. Fear and dread of violence in schools, churches, concerts and movie theaters. Fear that one day I will no longer recognize the country in which I was born and raised, that the damage to it may be too great to ever be repaired.

I scream into a dark void.

Spring Forward Chicago Style

It was early in the afternoon, my errands were out of the way and the day was warm and bright with sunshine. I headed out on my bike for my first ride of the year. It was early May but it felt like mid June. The people I passed on the lakefront trail were all smiles and pale white skin, I sometimes jokingly refer to it as winter white. A cute young man with jug ears pedaled by in the opposite direction singing to himself in Spanish. April had been abnormally cold. It seemed to drag on forever. It appeared as if everyone out that day felt they deserved this small window of summer like warmth and sun, this harbinger of the season to come. 

The strong winds from the south, the reason for the unseasonable temperatures, challenged me as I set out. City crews had been hard at work since my last ride. The playgrounds that dot the lakefront had been outfitted with gleaming new swings, slides and monkeybars. The rusted metal and peeling paint of the exercise pad that sits alongside the bike trail had been similarly transformed. 3 new workout stations inhabited the space where derelict ones had stood. 

Time constraints, the strong wind and concern about sun on my pale flesh so early in the year kept me from going the full distance I usually ride. As I turned my bike north the wind was at my back and pedaling at times seemed superfluous. 

That night we watched from our west facing kitchen window as thunderstorms approached. Occasionally hard, fierce and furious the rain soaked the dry ground. The following morning a dense, cool fog had settled along the lakefront. Once it burned off it looked as if spring had arrived, all at once, overnight. Flowering trees had bloomed, on others, the sun and rain coaxed leaves to unfurl from small green buds. Grass and shrubs had gone from dry and brown to that rich special verdant shade only seen for a few short weeks each year. Scores of daffodils and jonquils joined others of their kind already in bloom. Brightly colored tulips burst from their tightly closed green shells. Thick leaves, low to the ground, seemed suddenly sturdier, holding the promise of more flowers to come. 

It was spring in Chicago. After 30 plus years I knew that anything could happen. But, that day, I reveled in the moment, enjoying the feeling of warm wind in my face and the bright sun on my shoulders.

 

The State of the Union - MAGA

I fear for my country's future. I grew up connecting the passage of time with progress. Yet the slogan Make America Great Again suggest that some wish to turn the clock back.

Although species depletion and extinction is still an issue, mainly stemming from poaching and habitat loss these days, we have witnessed the return of the bald eagle and,through captive breeding and reintroduction into the wild, the black footed ferret, a small mammal whose population once numbered only 50. Reintroduction of wolves helped to restore some of the natural beauty, bounty and species diversity of Yellowstone, the park the very definition of a national treasure. The Chicago River, once a toxic, bubbling cauldron, has been restored and is cleaner that at any point in the city's modern history.

Now I watch, in horror, disappointment and disillusionment as pristine wilderness lands are stripped of protection. Our coastal waters are opened up to drilling for an exhaustible fossil fuel that, throughout much of the world, is swiftly becoming obsolete. Clean and renewable energy sources come under economic attack by a shortsighted administration that sees only immediate financial profit.

A seemingly endless stream of divisiveness and hate spews forth. It aims to stoke fears of those that do not conform to a white, so called, Christian, ideal. Hate of immigrants, gays, people of color and Muslims. It creates true fear among those against whom the hate is focused. Yet Jesus preached of brotherhood, peace an helping one another, particularly those less fortunate. These are the Christian values that I, a minister's son, was taught. They are values all humane and loving people should embrace, regardless of their belief or faith.

Corporations, in collusion with the administration, enrich themselves while offering their workers compensation so inadequate that they are forced to apply for public assistance. Even this aid is under attack. Our military takes over half of our government budget while U.S. citizens go hungry, even homeless.

Many talking heads on television speak of the exhausting nature of this administration. It seems a new outrage emerges everyday. Perhaps it is a plan to wear down the public. To tire us to the point where we are no longer shocked, where inhumane and what should be unacceptable actions are accepted as "the way things are".

Presently the slogan Make America Great Again suggests that we step backward. Perhaps, like some other slogans and words once hurtful, we should adopt it as we attempt to stem and repair the damage that is being done.