Altercations

This morning, on account of the fact that I have nothing to do until my one and only class of the day at 4:00 (rock climbing, meets in the mountains), I went for a run this morning when I awoke. I ran over to the University which is about a mile away to hit a few miles on the track because in my time here I haven't seen anyone running around the neighborhood, especially in Randall style shorts. To get onto the university grounds you have to show an ID. I usually flash my Georgia driver's license from behind the windshield of a taxi. I have no idea why this carries any weight with someone trying to only admit students and faculty. Regardless, when I was running this morning, I didn't bring my ID, so naturally the Mexican security guard stopped me and asked for my ID. I didn't know what to do, so I shouted "La Migra!" to scare him off. Not effective in Mexico. I eventually gained entrance to the track, where I ran a mile, which was quite enough to remind me that running on a track is miserable. And thus began my adventure.

Using my infallible innate sense of male direction, I took a few turns and started heading up the mountain. Fifteen minutes later I was out of breath on a gravel road with a 45*% grade (ok, maybe not 45 but it was steep) and turned to look back on the city. I had run past 3 or 4 stray dogs on my way, and when I turned around, sure enough, there they were. 3 or 4 really hungry looking dogs stood ten yards away, sizing me up. One of them barked something at me in Spanish, but I didn't understand. The rest of my run these guys kept a 10 yard tail on me, which quite honestly, scared the shit out of me as the last thing I want is to get rabies on a run on which I have no ID from a dog that I can't even communicate with. I ran the next mile in 4 minutes back to the safety of my house.

This is not the first altercation I have had in Mexico. Saturday, one of the locals took myself, a girl from Philly, and two Canadiens to a pool bar called La Caverna (the cave). This place is straight out of Doraville, GA. I'm talking cowboy boots, tight jeans, cowboy hats, a live ranchero band, large women in small clothing, and lots of neon. We were minding our own business, talking amongst ourselves in english about how much Canada sucks when all of a sudden a guy at the bar, obviously hammered, stands up, turns around with extreme caution so as not to fall, and starts yelling something. "RINGEJO!" pause. "RIROEGRIN" pause. I have no idea what he's saying and at this point I'm laughing at him. "¡VAYANSE!" Oh, got that one, that means leave. ok. He's still yelling. "LOUD NOISES""AHHHHH" Yeah dude, you're drunk, we get it. "GRINGOS! VAYANSE! GRINGOS! QUE VAYANSE DE AQUÍ!" Oh shit. He's saying Gringos leave. Oh shit. We're gringos. Oh shit. He's coming over here and yelling that he wants us to leave. Being a tall, strong you man who is proud of his heratige and status as a gringo, I grabbed my jacket and was ready to bolt. This is when security grabbed the guy and tossed him out. After that, the bar owner came up to us and asked if everything was ok, at which point I looked angry and ready to fight the screaming drunk man to the death. After all, he was only 5'5".

-Randall