No Friends in Low Places

People who have been regularly reading my blog – all 7 of you (or 2, if you exclude my blood relatives) – have expressed how envious they are of Miranda and me because of all the adventures we are having in Central Mexico. While we recognize how very fortunate we are for the opportunity to experience a whole new culture and ways of napping, I’ll have you know that it isn’t all fun in the sun down here.

Yes, we have great food. Yes, the weather is fantastic. Yes, the cost of living is low. Yes, we have a great apartment. Yes, we are in relatively close proximity to several fantastic cities and beaches.

Yes, I can see now why you are all envious of us.

However, those of you with schadenfreude tendencies will be thrilled to know that Miranda and I are, indeed, struggling – particularly in one key area: Making friends.

I know, it’s hard to believe. I mean, with my scathing atheism in this mega-Catholic metropolis, and Miranda’s unsurpassed ability to say nothing to locals, you’d think we’d be the tostada of the town by now.

True, we did befriend Tony – the possible mafia guy from 8 blog posts ago – but he is so busy running his restaurant, traveling, and shattering knee caps that we rarely get to spend any quality time with him and his wife.

We are not asking for pity; we are merely asking you to come visit and tell us how much you like us.

It’s gotten so bad that we have even tried befriending Germans. There are plenty of them down here, as Puebla is the location of Volkswagon’s North American headquarters. No scheiss. In fact, there is a German man and his Thai wife who live on the same floor as us. Upon learning this a few weeks ago, Miranda prepared a very thoughtful gift basket containing some good beer and some ingredients for Thai cooking, and left it outside their front door with a note attached saying “Welcome, from 401” (our apartment number). Well, the next day the gift basket was gone, and we haven’t seen or heard from them since. We have heard them – rushing into the elevator, probably with their fingers crossed hoping they can make their escape without having to endure any violent hug attacks from overzealous Americans.

The whole neighbor incident really irked Miranda, who, in a fit of frustration, uttered a few anti-Teutonic epithets in the privacy of our apartment. I told her that I understood her anger, but that it isn’t right to denounce an entire ethnicity or nationality based on one or two negative personal experiences. I didn’t want to sound too strict or preachy, but I explained how there are only two things I cannot abide by in life: 1) people who are intolerant of other cultures; and 2) Belgians.

Our lack of local cronies is all the more puzzling because, generally speaking, Mexicans are easy-going, social creatures with little animosity toward gringos. The truth is, I have no difficulty striking up conversations with cabbies, waiters, shopkeepers and hotel personnel, but for some odd reason have had little luck sparking discourse with people who aren’t paid to talk to me. I’m not saying that everyone I meet should adore me, but I had assumed that my drunken rapping alone would be a big draw.

Miranda has become friendly with several colleagues from work, but nobody from there has invited us to any dinners or weddings, tried to borrow any money or power tools from us, or severely pissed us off, thus really can’t be considered friends.

I guess it isn’t a total shock that we remain amigo-less in Mexico. After all, I spend every weekday working alone from home in my pajamas. The only social activity I engage in are conversations with a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Vladimir Nabokov that I placed near my writing desk. Add to that the fact that Miranda hasn’t had time to master Spanish and refuses to befriend any woman who doesn’t own a decent pair of designer jeans, and I guess it’s easy to see why we’ve yet to host any dinner parties.

I should point out that we have had some near misses with making friends, but are usually foiled by geography. For instance, during a recent trip to Mexico City, we met a young American couple – vacationing USC medical students – who were staying in the same guest house as we were. I typically don’t connect strongly with people in their early-to- mid 20s, mainly because I can’t keep up with the text messaging, but these guys were very bright, well traveled and, most importantly, they talked to us. But, inevitably, they had to head back to Southern Cal – despite our attempts to persuade them to drop out of med school and hang out. Thus, our amistad never had a chance to bloom. As we parted ways, I held a loose fist to my ear and whispered, “Call me”.

We won’t give up on the quest to make real friends who live real close. In the meantime, Miranda and I will continue to be each other’s best and only friend. We’ll continue to invite one another to dinners. We’ll continue to borrow money and power tools from one another. We most certainly will continue to piss each other off.

And as anxious as we are to form lasting bonds with new and interesting people, we both know deep down that nobody we meet will be able to compare to the best friend each of us already has. Especially if they are German.