Matador Network's Blog, page 2188

Story behind the shot: Playa Guiones

Photo: Nat Kuleba

MatadorU photography student Nat Kuleba talks about the evening she took this image:

The sunset gathering on Playa Giones, Nosara, Costa Rica. It’s a ritual for everyone — locals, expats, and travelers. I was there on a surf trip with a super close friend, a brother. All we did was surf all day. When sunset came we’d be on the beach with a six-pack of Imperial. I’d have my camera in hand. One night I caught a glimpse of this father and his baby on a bike. I quickly grabbed my camera and captured this scene. I feel like it offers a glimpse of what it’s like to fully be there.

America is a beautiful country

Photo: Bryan Guilas

The name for the USA in Chinese is Mei Guo (美國), which directly translates into “beautiful country.”1 The name suits the country well, as anyone who’s driven around the US can attest.

After spending a few years abroad, I became somewhat mystified by the American love affair with the automobile. Cars were indulgent and cumbersome when buses or trains were cheaper alternatives. It took a road trip of my own down the Pacific Coast Highway to reignite the romance. I’ve since racked up the mileage on my odometer exploring the forests and deserts of my home state of California. Traveling without a car hasn’t been the same.

While others tend to get caught up with “the open road” and “the wind in your hair,” I drive to travel on my own schedule. I’m not running to catch the last bus out of town or missing an alarm and scrambling to pack for the only train to who-knows-where. I don’t have shady tour operators forcing our bus to stop at a deserted factory outlet in the middle of China. If I want to spend an extra hour sipping this tea or admiring that view, I can. Driving is travel unrestrained by where or when other people say you ought to go.

Recently I was fortunate to be outfitted with a funky little campervan from the good folks at JUCY for a little tour of my own. With a rooftop tent and a kitchen in the trunk, I had no choice but to answer the sultry beckoning of Zion National Park.

* * *

We almost named the purple and green van Big Poppa in honor of The Notorious B.I.G. (Juicy, get it?), but we eventually settled on Donatello. It comfortably seats and sleeps four people, with a foldout bed in the lower level and a rooftop pop-up tent above. The lower bunk has access to the fold-down DVD player. In the back there’s a little kitchen with two burners, a little sink, and a fridge. The fridge made managing our food supply so much easier because it can run overnight without killing the van’s battery.

* * *

The Pacific Coast Highway was out of the way, but it would be criminal to embark on a Californian road trip without a bit of Highway 1. My companion Ai Ling handled the music as we careened along the coast, the sunset glowing molten oranges and violets.

We set up camp at Leo Carrillo Beach, one of my childhood beaches. Sitting in the shade of the giant sycamore trees, I inspected an acorn that fell at my feet. We used to go on field trips in this area to learn about the Chumash, who depended on acorns as a major food source.

The beach was a short walk from the campsite. Kayakers were paddling back from exploring the nearby sea caves, and kids were gleefully molesting the local sea life in the tide pools. We lounged about on the beach with some paella I cooked in the campervan, taking sips from a bottle of wine we kept hidden in a towel.

There’s some great hiking in the Malibu and Santa Monica mountains, but I had other plans. We packed up the van and headed to the Angeles Crest Highway, just off the 210. It’s a winding drive up into the Los Padres Forest, with many places to stop and enjoy a view of Los Angeles. We found a quiet turnoff and clambered up into the pop-tent and admired the shimmering city below.

* * *

By the time we’d reached Zion, we were sleep deprived, and our brains were cooked medium well from the heat of Lake Mead. My friend Rex drooped in his seat, mumbling something about naps. He perked up the moment we parked. “There’s nowhere you can stand that isn’t beautiful,” Rex said. Zion’s sandstone formations certainly deserve their divine reputation, reaching up thousands of feet into the sky. Colored like dusty pastels, they reminded me of the dyed shells of Easter eggs.

One of Zion’s most famous hikes is Angels Landing. The signs at the base warned it was “not for people with a fear of heights,” but we just laughed it off. We weren’t laughing for long though. After a steep ascent, there’s a section where hikers must hang on to a chain bolted into the walls or risk falling straight off of the narrow bit of rock. A strong gust of wind or a homicidal passerby could send you hurtling to your death. Which is to say, it was exactly the kind of hike I was hoping for. Reaching the summit gave us 360-degree views of the canyon and a chance to bask in our triumph with other hikers.

So what’s the best way to celebrate a day of rigorous activity? By being lazy, of course. We rented a DVD of Inglourious Basterds to watch in the van and had a merry time drinking American beers and watching Nazis die by the hands of Brad Pitt.

We would have loved to have hiked the Narrows, but it was unfortunately washed out by rain when we were visiting. It follows a narrow canyon with vertical walls, and you actually hike in the river (you can get outfitted with appropriate gear in town).

All the more reason to come back.

[Editor's note: This trip was partially sponsored by our friends at JUCY Rentals.]

This is a bit misleading. Mei Guo does translate into “beautiful country,” but the word mei was chosen more for its phonetic sound than its literal meaning. A-mei-rica. This goes for other countries’ names in Mandarin. Eng-land is Ying Guo, which translates into “heroic country.” Deu-tschland is De Guo, which translates into “virtuous country.” The flattering translations don’t necessarily represent character.

The 7 strangest American idioms

Photo: Anaïs

When I point out to my English friends that they’re mispronouncing the word “banana” (which, after two drinks, I do frequently), they have a tendency to point out that our shared language is called “English,” not “American.” I usually tell them that while they may have invented the language, we perfected it, and then we usually start shouting and drinking too much and it all gets a bit blurry.

I stand by our folksy, cartoonish form of English, though. Yes, we can sometimes butcher the language beyond recognition, but we’ve made it our own to the point that it can be practically impenetrable to non-native speakers. As I’ve traveled to Spanish-speaking countries and learned another language, I’ve realized how heavily Americans depend on metaphors and idioms that don’t translate, and occasionally, I come across an idiom that may actually be straight-up inexplicable for a non-American to understand.

1. “He’s going postal!”

Ah, America. The only place where massacres are so common in a certain profession that you can make a folksy aphorism out of it. This idiom refers to a string of gun rampages by postal workers from the years 1986 to 1993, and refers less to gun rampages across the board, and more toward gun rampages in one’s place of work. For instance, if your boss is a dick one more time, you’re going to “go postal.” It is believed the term was popularized by the movie Clueless.

2. “It jumped the shark.”

This term is probably the most inexplicable on its face, but because its origins are so recent, most Americans know where it came from: The show Happy Days was a fixture of American television from 1974 to 1984, and it was generally well loved until Season 5 when, in one particularly bad episode, the show’s hero, Fonzie, goes water skiing and jumps over a caged shark. Most people watching the show thought, “Well, this show sucks now,” and the term “jumping the shark” is now used for the moment when any television show (or any other cultural phenomenon) stops being relevant and starts being ridiculous.

3. “I smell a rat.”

While it’s possible — even probable — that the United States was not the first country to use this phrase, we’ve since taken it over and made it our own. The “rat” in American slang generally refers to a police informant or a snitch. Rats are almost universally despised as disloyal backstabbers, even though in a lot of cases they’re doing the right thing. For more on rats, see The Godfather, The Departed, Goodfellas, and every great American gangster movie ever.

4. “It knocked my socks off!”

It’s hard to tell exactly where this phrase came from — one particularly ridiculous theory is that early pornos featured men wearing socks on their heads to hide their identities, while the more high-quality pornos had men who were willing to take the socks off. What isn’t a mystery is why it’s so popular in America: it’s a perfectly cartoonish description of something being so incredible that it “floored you,” or “blew you away,” or “knocked your socks off.” And if there’s one thing Americans love, it’s cartoonish hyperbole.

5. “I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

This phrase refers to getting a particularly good tip or suggestion from someone who is in a good position to give it. It comes from American horse racing: if you were to get a tip as to which horse would be the best one to bet on, for example, you would expect the best possible information to come from the innermost circle — or the horse’s mouth itself.

6. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

This proverb is typically used in the dating world, and is said as an assurance to someone who has just lost or been rejected by someone. It’s been around in the US since 1573, but is becoming less and less accurate with overfishing. Maybe we should switch it to, “There are plenty more carbon dioxide particulates in the sky,” or, “There are plenty of other bros in this stupid fucking bar.”

7. “Say uncle!”

This is a particularly weird one. It’s usually what a bully will say to a kid he’s hurting. If the kid complies, the bully will stop hurting him. No one’s really sure where it came from: one theory is that it comes from the Irish word meaning “mercy,” while another says it’s an ancient Roman term that kids used to make a bullied kid call for an adult. There’s another theory that it comes from a joke about a man trying to get his parrot to say the word “uncle” and then beating up the parrot when the parrot refuses to say it. Regardless, it’s a dumb saying that we Americans equate with bullying.

Photograph yourself on your travels

Photo: Lulu Lovering

I’ve only seen two photographs of my parents before they had my sister and me. One is a typical wedding photo. They’re walking down the aisle at Saint Joseph’s as a newly married couple, my mom in a short-sleeved gown she made herself and my dad in a light grey tuxedo. Their arms are linked and they’re looking out into the pews of people.

The second is a photo from before they were married. They’re camping somewhere in Maine, sitting on a rock with their arms around each other — the same way you’d wrap your arm around your best friend. There’s a curving tree line behind them. My mom’s wearing a wool sweater she still has, her hair is down and frizzy. Even with the soft black-and-white grain, you can tell she’s still a natural, light blonde. (Her hair turned brown when she was pregnant with me.) My dad has a mustache. It looks odd to me; I’ve only known him with a full beard. He’s smiling, his eyes curled up into half-moons. He looks a lot like I do when I smile.

This photo remains taped to our fridge at home, fragile, almost translucent in its old age. Taken more than 30 years ago, it’s one of the only remaining artifacts of my parents’ life before kids.

Whenever any of us comes back from traveling, my family insists that we show our photographs in a kind of grandiose slideshow on our television. We’re all required to ooh and ahh as Caribbean mountains fade into exotic flowers, odd fruits, and turquoise waters we’ll never get to wade through ourselves.

When I was still in college, I went on a backpacking trip through the Dominican Republic. I returned in late spring around my birthday. After dinner with my parents, we retired to the living room, where I clicked through my photos of kid goats and tied up horses, sunsets over sugarcane fields, and all the fire-charred fish I ate whole.

Out of maybe 100 photos, there was just one of me. I was standing on the side of the road in Las Galeras with my borrowed 60-liter backpack, hoping to get a ride with someone going west. A guy I’d met at the hostel had quickly snapped the photo. I was squinting into the sun, my hair loosely French-braided and my face almost completely sunburned. I don’t have that photo anymore. I didn’t like how red my face looked so I quickly deleted it years ago, not even stopping to think that it was the only real evidence of me in the Dominican Republic as a 20-year-old.

But then I started to see where she was coming from. All these everyday moments were slipping by us.

When my slideshow finished, my dad made a comment.

“Your mother and I never took enough photos of ourselves. We have albums of flowers and mountains and you guys as kids, but we don’t have any of us when we were young,” he said. “It was one of our biggest mistakes.”

His comment stuck with me. It reminded me of an argument I was used to seeing between my parents. Sometimes at Christmas, or at one of our birthday dinners, or even just during some random family activity, my mom would get upset if my dad didn’t think to take her picture with us.

I always ignored it as some kind of strange marriage quarrel. My dad isn’t a natural photographer. He can’t be expected to anticipate the perfect candid or suggest the most-flattering angle for your fantastically well-lit portrait. It honestly seemed a little vain. As much as we all secretly want a professional photographer to follow us around, silently capturing our wispy hair and flowing skirts as the sun sets behind them, we’re not the Kardashians. It’s just not feasible.

But then I started to see where she was coming from. All these everyday moments were slipping by us. Her own daughters were even starting to morph into grown women, steamrolling toward middle age. If she didn’t speak up for her cause, we’d be left with no documentation that we ever existed as young girls, our appearances ever-changing with our constantly shifting opinions of the world. There’d be no evidence that we were ever together at this particular stage in time — that when you line all three of us up together, our noses all look the same. Even on a redhead, brunette, and now not-so-natural blonde, our features all have the same smallness. We’re a family.

It wasn’t that the wisdom of age was something to dread, it was just that aging was a forthcoming moment, one that could never be thoroughly understood or enjoyed without evidence of what came before it. My mom knows that.

Portraits allow us to speak with our past selves, thank them for their youthful dreams.

Throughout our extended family, my mom is known for being a stubborn, determined photographer. She brings her tripod to every get-together and takes her time making it exactly level. She’s forced us all into the backyard in winter, made us stand there for 20 minutes in the snow until she was sure everyone looked as they should in the photo. Every single time we argue, roll our eyes. And every single time she stands her ground.

“You’re all going to be very thankful I did this,” she claims.

And we always are. Because of my mother, I can go back through more than two decades of myself. There I am as a scowling 13-year-old in a push-up bra, as a fully roll-on-glittered 17-year-old, as a 19-year-old, just back from my first trip abroad without my parents.

I can remember so many times when I’ve sat, carefully posed in what I thought to be excellent light, and silently, telepathically pleaded with whoever I was with to take my picture, or suggest one of us together. There are so many times I’ve counted on someone else to see what I saw, to say, “Let’s take one.”

But now, like my mother, I’ve started to speak up. I’m done being embarrassed, worried that I might seem vain. I’m done being so swept up by the landscape that it seems too exhausting to suggest a photo of me or someone else in it.

Just like my parents, we all have albums and albums of landscapes. And as we flip through the pages, don’t they all start to look the same? The mountains, skylines, glimmering waters all take on a similar, predictable monotony. Even though we were once there, awed by their beauty, they are distant from us now. As soon as we put a frame around something, it disappears. There’s nothing of our self there.

My grandmother is a watercolor artist. She told me once that she’ll never do a portrait. A person’s face has too much expression, their emotion distracts away from the beauty of the land. I don’t think that’s so negative.

When I look into my own photographed eyes, I can almost remember exactly what I was thinking at that moment. We all know ourselves so well that we can decode the lines on our faces, the slight crinkles, side glances, turned-up lips. Portraits allow us to speak with our past selves, thank them for their youthful dreams.

Sometimes we see ourselves in old photos — arms around the person we love, hair frizzy, clothes dirty — and we think about what we didn’t yet know. We laugh at our naivety. Envy it. Other times, we marvel at an old friend — a past soul we’ve forgotten — the traveler caught up in a vast landscape, while slowly moving on to another moment of life.

Swimming with humpback whales

WE DON’T GIVE ANIMALS ENOUGH CREDIT; they really are remarkable creatures who shouldn’t be caged up, or used as cheesy attractions. What an amazing experience it must have been for Brad Nicholls and and his girlfriend Emily-Rose Curtis, who had taken a boat out in search of sea turtles off the shore of Australia’s Gold Coast, only to be joined by a female humpback whale and her baby. The couple took a risk by swimming with the mammals, but it seems like it was well worth it. I think it’s a perfect example of how humans and animals can coexist in their natural habitats, and that it’s more rewarding to see these animals happier in their original ecosystems.

Dear locals laughing at my tour

Photo: Asim Bharwani

Dear Locals,

Well, of course I saw you roll your eyes. You laughed pretty loudly when you noticed your friend doing the same. I know, it’s easy to make fun of the girl with the Hello Kitty backpack taking peace-sign selfies in front of what seems like every big rock, tall tree, and bronzed statue we encounter.

If I were being honest, I’d tell you that I wish this group of middle-aged Americans would stop lifting their huge DSLRs to furiously snap photos of everything our Melburnian tour guide points at. As if their cargo pants and Columbia fleece vests weren’t drawing enough attention to us, they add loud “oohs” and “aahs” and incessant click! click! click! sounds to the mix. I just want yell, “Your camera’s on auto mode, relax!”

Believe me, you really didn’t have to go out of your way to imitate the girl wearing high heels (on a walking tour!) who seems to think every stop we make is a set for her photo shoot. I’m sure she’s suffering enough in those shoes. My point is I hate to stand out when I travel, and I’m well aware that we look a bit strange. I’ve got vicarious embarrassment down to a tee and, well, our tour guide has a man bun. Cut me some slack.

I’m just here to say: I get it. You think we’re silly paying money to look at buildings and monuments you walk past every day. You don’t understand why every group of foreigners you come across takes 500 pictures of Big Ben from different angles, or feels the need to stand in the middle of the sidewalk staring at a derelict building in Brick Lane.

I know exactly where you’re coming from. I’m from Toronto, a city that sees its fair share of tour groups — East Asian tourists descend on the city in huge coach buses with Chinese, Japanese, or Korean characters detailed on the side. They park in inconvenient places and appear to have cameras for hands, snapping away at every building and busker on the street where the rest of us are just trying to live our lives.

After a while, I learned not to buy coffees from the Second Cup on Bloor Street West because it was directly opposite the Royal Ontario Museum. On a regular day that’s a busy sidewalk spot, but when the tour buses arrive it’s a pedestrian pileup. The visitors stream out of the bus, run across the road to the Second Cup, and look for the perfect angle to get the whole Michael Lee-Chin Crystal into one image. I’ve spilled far too many lattés while narrowly avoiding getting poked in the eye by a woman’s visor because she stopped suddenly in front me. There’s a reason people think this Crystal is a stain on the city, and it isn’t just the protruding Daniel Libeskind design.

When it’s your everyday reality, it’s pretty annoying. But then there was this afternoon in June when I was walking down St. Patrick Street to meet a friend. It’s mostly residential, in the middle of the downtown Toronto, so I was surprised to see a tour bus slowing to a stop. Just before I rolled my eyes, I decided to look at what they were seeing. It was 54 1/2 St. Patrick Street, so numbered because the house occupying the lot was sawed in half. Literally. The right side was sold to a developer and destroyed in the 1970s; the hole on the other side was sealed and remains a family home today.

I’d walked down that street many times before and never noticed there’s half a Victorian house on the street. I felt silly that I didn’t see the city I loved in the same way these tourists did: with awe, inspiration, anticipation. I had that ‘been there, done that’ attitude that accomplishes nothing but close you off to learning new things.

So while I empathize with you — we’re blocking your view, your commute to work, your happy hour drinking — I also don’t. Surely you’ve been that person taking selfies at a Buddhist monastery or ‘holding up’ the Leaning Tower of Pisa at one time or another. No? I don’t believe you — show me your Instagram.

Look, just because it’s your hometown doesn’t mean you can’t still experience that warm, fuzzy feeling you get when you uncover a new place. Quit your snickering, reserve your judgement. Ask yourself: What do they see that I don’t?

After you move to Brooklyn

Photo: Steve McFarland

1. You will get called a hipster.

The second you move anywhere in Brooklyn, no matter if it’s Park Slope, Crown Heights, Sheepshead Bay, or in actual Williamsburg, people will call you a hipster for doing it — New Jersey residents especially. Because if you can’t afford to live in Manhattan, why not just move to Jersey like them? It’s faster to take the PATH to Penn Station than it is to take the subway anywhere.

2. You will learn (or pretend to learn) all the random neighborhoods.

At first you won’t know what Bed-Stuy means (for the record, it stands for Bedford–Stuyvesant), or where the hell Kensington is. And maybe you never will. But at least you’ll learn to nod your head and smile when the cute boy you just met or your new co-worker says they live in Cobble Hill, Gowanus, or Sunset Park. Pro-Tip: if you can’t get down the locations, at least learn specific traits. For example, Flatbush has authentic Caribbean food, DUMBO is essentially Manhattan and Red Hook equals Ikea.

3. You will spend a lot of time on roofs.

Bonus points if it’s your own rooftop or if it has a view of Manhattan. It doesn’t matter the time of year, weather, or the proximity to the train, rooftops in Brooklyn are where the party’s at. On rooftops, noise doesn’t really matter, smoking won’t really bother anyone, and you can have a fire pit or a Smurf piñata.

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4. You will spend a lot of time on trains.

This isn’t because Brooklyn is particularly far from “the city” (i.e. Manhattan) but because all your Manhattan friends think it is. Manhattanites don’t go to Brooklyn unless they want a hipster haircut or to go to Smorgasburg. Manhattanites think that the only reason you live in Brooklyn is because you cant afford Manhattan, and although it may have a slight ring of truth, it doesn’t make the commute to Manhattan for Sunday Brunch any more fun. That being said, about 6 months in, you may decide to forego any friendships with Manhattanites because the twenty minutes to get to Manhattan just seems too long.

5.Your mother will think you’re going to die.

Your mother will call you every single day, possibly twice a day if there is a shooting or some sort of abduction somewhere in Brooklyn. She will send you texts to remind you to lock your door when you leave the house and send you emails telling you to avoid walking pass the barbershop that is run by Rastafarians who play hip-hop music around the clock. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell her that the Brooklyn of her 20s is not the Brooklyn of yours or that riding the subway after 9pm is no longer considered “dangerous” by anyone. She will never be convinced that Brooklyn is just as safe and gentrified as Manhattan is these days. To her, it just can’t be possible.

6. You realize you can eat at a new brunch place every weekend and never run out of options.

There is a never-ending selection of brunch places to try. Each one has bottomless mimosas, all-day coffee, and a random selection of dishes such as “kale cupcakes” and “ibis nests” to experiment with. For the first month you will try a different one each week, but by week five you will find your spot (probably the one closest to your apartment) and never deviate.

7. You will fall in love with Wash & Fold Laundromats.

At first, you will convince yourself that you don’t need to drop off your clothes. Why pay $20 for someone to stick your stuff in a washer, when you can do it for half that? But eventually, after you wait a month to do your laundry and you realize you’d rather spend a Saturday doing anything other than sitting at a laundromat, you will give in to the temptation and drop off your clothing. After all, they text you when your clothes are done and they fold them tinier than you ever could.

8. You will become all about #ShopLocal.

With tiny family bookstores, organic grocery stores, and farmers markets on most days of the week, you may find yourself having an averse reaction to all chains. Why go to Key Food when you can go to the Grand Army Plaza Green Market? Why get ice cream from Cold Stone, when you can go to Ample Hills or buy a pint of Brooklyn’s own Phin & Phebes? You may even find yourself protesting the new Starbucks in Crown Heights that is located directly next too local coffee hotspot The Pulp & The Bean.

9. You will find that Lena Dunham is a constant topic of discussion like the weather or the Yankees.

Lena’s name will come up in conversation at least once a day by co-workers who assume everyone in Brooklyn is a Dunham disciple or by friends from out-of-state who are convinced that you live in a naked commune in a constant state of sexual arousal with a carousel of revolving artist boyfriends “just like in Girls.” You will hear your local baristas debating Lena’s merits — or lack thereof — and see people run for seats on the train just so they can dig back into her memoir, Not That Kind of Girl. No matter where you stand on Lena Dunham, she actually grew up in Manhattan, so there’s that.

10. You will discover that everyone outside of NYC thinks you’re cooler than you actually are.

Thanks to Girls — and other TV shows and movies like it — Brooklyn is now officially on the map. No matter where you go, when you say you live in Brooklyn, people know where it is and they know it’s cool. So by default, that makes you cool too.

Daredevils hack Hong Kong skyscraper

THE RUSSIAN FREE-CLIMBING TEAM “On the Roofs” has set a new standard for urban free climbers by sneaking to the top of the China Online Centre skyscraper rooftop in Hong Kong and hacking into the building’s massive billboard to make it display their own message. The core members of the team are Vitaliy Raskalov and Vadim Makhorov, and they made a bit of a stir about a year ago when they published pictures they’d taken from the top of the pyramids at Giza. We interviewed Makhorov about the Pyramid climb last year, and he said, “At the top there were words scratched in the stones in many different languages. It means others have climbed the pyramids in the past. We are not the first and won’t be the last.”

Maybe so, but On the Roofs keeps upping the ante – they’ve now climbed Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia, Paris’ Notre Dame, the Shanghai Tower and countless others — so even if they’re not the last people to make their epic climbs, they’re setting an impossibly high standard for the sheer badassery of their climbs.

The whole video is worth watching, but if you’re in a rush, jump to the 1:02 mark to see the start of the break-in, the 1:30 mark to get to the roof, 2:30 for the hijacking, and 3:05 for the escape.

Why we'll always love with Thailand

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From comments in travel forums to gossip in hostel bars, I’ve heard the criticisms of Thailand — it’s too mainstream, too easy, too crowded for an authentic experience. “Thailand is so overrated…go to Laos instead,” or “Myanmar is the only real place left in Southeast Asia.”

But in July I returned to Thailand for the third time and spent two weeks traveling in Bangkok and northern Thailand. And somewhere between a bareback elephant ride through the steaming Golden Triangle jungle and a $1 plate of sinfully rich stewed pork leg at a Chiang Mai night market, I realized these pretentious critics couldn’t be more wrong. Thailand is freaking awesome.

Brian’s trip was sponsored by:

Hilton Sukhumvit Hotel

Doubletree Sukhumvit Hotel

Le Méridien Chiang Mai

RatiLanna Riverside Spa Resort

Anantara Golden Triangle Elephant Camp and Resort

Royal Agricultural Station Inthanon

13 signs your best friend is Mexican

Image by Nieri Da Silva

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1. Your name has been officially changed to güey.

Sometimes your friend will call you by other friendly nicknames like cabrón and puto, but your real name is reserved for extraordinary situations. Even then it’ll always be followed by güey, puto, cabrón in every combination possible. It’s good you no longer consider these words to be insults.

2. You’ve gone through really strong emotional moments…that only you remember.

After several shots of mezcal he has probably confessed how much he loves you, that you’re like a brother / sister to him, that he’ll give his life for you without second thoughts, and that he has a crush on your sister. These confessions will normally precede unconsciousness and the light of a new day will erase them forever.

3. You no longer worry about germs.

It probably surprised you the first time he helped himself to your plate, took a long sip from your soda, or a good bite out of your sandwich. Please don’t get mad at him…or he’ll keep doing it just to annoy you.

4. Your meetings don’t need a lot of fine tuning.

You have lots of usual places where you commonly meet. This is the reason why expressions such as “Let’s meet in downtown in an hour” or “See you near the plaza at five” make perfect sense without further details (just like in the movies). Try being so simplistic with anyone else.

5. Su casa es tu casa…but your fridge has become his own.

Your friend has that warm sense of hospitality Mexicans are well known for, and you know his door will never be locked for you. In exchange, he’s expecting you to keep your fridge fully stocked with beers and snacks for whenever he decides to pay you a visit.

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6. You’ll find that his place is the best place to look for your missing belongings.

Where’s the politeness in asking to borrow something? A true Mexican friend will simply let you know he’s decided to take some of your stuff home with him. All those records, books, video games, and DVDs you know you had, but are nowhere to be found, are probably abandoned in some corner of his apartment. Don’t question him, as he’s probably forgotten he took them. It’s better if you just take a trip to his place and reclaim what’s yours.

7. You’ll learn there’s no such thing as “no pun intended.”

Mexicans have a very special way of punning and it’s always intentional. Albur is a word game commonly played among friends, where everyday words suddenly acquire a sexual connotation and are used to put your friend in some uncomfortable position. Amazing as it may sound, some people in Mexico do this professionally! Chances are that if your Mexican friend is giving you Spanish lessons, you’re already learning albur…even if you’re not aware of it.

8. You know this guy can be trusted.

A normal Mexican friend will avoid saying no to anything, fearing he’ll hurt your feelings, but you’ll soon realize how easily your best friend will tell you that your plans are complete bullshit and how he’d rather stay home doing nothing. All that frustration regarding sincerity has to come out against someone!

9. You know you need to settle up, but it’s not something you should really worry about.

He’s lent and borrowed money quite a few times. Settling sounds like a good practice, but you know you’ll eventually square up with drinks, pizza, movie tickets, or whatever comes by.

More like this: 5 things Mexicans say to avoid the word NO


10. You’ll always celebrate your birthday in the right and proper way.

Not wanting to celebrate your birthday this year is completely out of the question. If the date is coming close and you haven’t planned anything, your friend will do it for you (probably without telling you). At some point in the celebration he’ll insist in singing you Las Mañanitas, because one birthday song is never enough.

11. You know he’ll never learn how to ring the bell.

Crying out your name in the middle of the street, throwing pebbles at your window, honking like a wildman and whistling a little tune he made up especially for this occasion…they’re all perfectly reasonable ways for him to announce his arrival. He could also leave you a missed call, but where’s the originality in that?

12. His family knows (and calls you) by your nickname.

There’s so much trust between you and your friend’s family that they aren’t ashamed to call you by that strange nickname he invented for you. If you’re even a little bit blonde, there’s a strong possibility you’ll be referred to as el güero or la güera.

13. You know you’ll always have a shoulder to lean on.

It doesn’t matter if you meet every leap year…you know he’ll be with you through thick and thin because he’s completely sincere and you’ll forever be carnales.