The weekend crowd was large and bustling. The Mexico City Metropolitan Cathedral looms over the Zocalo the way most of the churches I’ve run into in Europe can’t seem to impose themselves upon their square. The structure is massive and covers an area at least as large as the huge open area in front of it. Imposing buildings flanked the square, one monolith per side, making the space feel entombing for its openness. And the church here seems to be the center of gravity and attention, with the majority of the action and vibrance drawn towards it and a lesser amount of action orbiting the outline of the square.

There was a stage set up in the square this weekend. The site is often used for political demonstrations and protests so this was no surprise. But this weekend the stage was occupied by dancers and pop music. As I got closer I heard the distinct Psy style. Gangnam Style. Closer still, I saw t-shirts and posters in Korean. The song shifted to Psy’s more recent song, Gentleman. After a minute or so, back to Gangnam Style. The songs swapped back and forth with the people on stage apparently learning the different dance moves for each. Eventually it came to an end and the crowd, mostly Chilangitas (young women from Mexico City), cheered loudly. I’m not sure what this was but it’s clear that there’s a great love of K-Pop in Mexico City.

I continued walking around near the church, through the crowd. And through the buskers with their wares spread on tarps, pushed in carts and hawked with calls about the quality and cost of what was on offer. Hungry and curious I tried a snack I’d seen others eating. Onto a crispy blue corn tortilla was smothered refried beans, cilantro, sautéed peppers, queso fresco and some picante sauce. You eat it by breaking the chip-like tortilla and scooping some of the topping into your mouth. Kind of like nachos you can hold in your hand!

After finishing the snack I went inside the main entrance of the Zocalo church. (The church has many side chapels which seem to be for specific purposes: confession, baptism, etc.) It is as large inside as you would expect. But another difference between it and Northern European churches struck me. This is a pragmatic place, set to be used not just toured. Chairs were set up around the popular altars; a portrait of the Pope who had visited many years ago was an active area; a mass was being conducted. I was a visitor, and even in this touristic area, I was the exception. So I stopped being in the way and walked back into the bright sunlight.

I leaned in the shade and checked where to go next. Quickly I was set upon by a group of teenage girls. Likely many of the same from the K-Pop show. The lead one asked me in Spanish if I spoke English and if I wouldn’t mind answering some questions. I didn’t. So a quick scripted and recorded interview later I was on my way. Kids practicing English often want to speak with a native speaker so it’s not out of the ordinary.

But I was stopped several other times for interviews. At one point there was a line of groups of kids waiting to interview me. They all seemed to be doing this for the same school (I asked several groups)band were all about the same age. I can imagine the giggles as every student realizes that they spoke with me. And the stifled chuckles of the professor imagining how I’d spent my day at the Zocalo speaking with his/her class about my favorite sports, my name, age, favorite Mexican food, and whether I’d like to come back to Mexico some time.

Of all the interviews I gave today one stand out. The boy was alone, except for his videographer mother, in contrast to the groups of girls as most were. He had his questions printed out and carried a pen, rather than written long hand as others. He wore thick glasses and looked like McLovin’s younger Mexican brother. He also asked the most intelligent questions and noted everything on his script as it was being documented. I have the feeling he is going to be either a scientist or a reporter and I wish him luck in either endeavor (or in whatever he chooses).

As the sun dipped below the clouds in the afternoon I walked away. I realized my skin stayed warm even in the shade and that brought back the realization that Mexico City was close to the equator and high in altitude, making sunburn virtually guaranteed on my unscreened skin. So staying in the shade I walked to find a little cafe overlooking the Alameda Central Park. It was hard to find because you have to go through the nine-story Sears to get there. But it was worth it for the view and the coffee frappe. Sitting there (in the shade) overlooking the park and the Architecture Museum while the sun set was beyond just pleasant. The drink was emptied too quickly, as was my energy.

I headed back to the hotel tired but full of appreciation for the things I’d seen and the experiences I’d had. I told all the kids that I had Liked Mexico and would return. That wasn’t just a nicety for their sake, I meant it. Mexico City is a vibrant metropolis with many different sides. It feels both Latin and European at times, which is not surprising given its geography and history. But the two work well together, matching culture and insanity the way a merengue mixes a gas into a liquid with the help of a little sugar and lime juice. A pleasant treat.

“I’ve been one poor correspondent
I’ve been too too hard to find
But that doesn’t mean you ain’t been on my mind”
-America, Sister Golden Hair

I’ve been both busy and lazy but it’s no excuse for not writing more.

While I was in London everything was a bit too boring, normal and well-explored. And so was I. It wasn’t worth writing, let alone reading.

I’ve been living in Seoul, South Korea for a couple of months and that’s definitely worth writing about. From a Miguk (American) perspective there’s a lot of hilarity to be had resulting from expectation gaps and cultural differences. I’ve got some notes on that and, well, we’ll see how it goes with getting those hammered into reasonable posts.

And for the month of May I’m living and working in Mexico City. And this is what has got me back on the keyboard clackity-clacking out some new posts. A combination with some time on my hands alone and lots of things I want to capture have gotten the juices flowing again and that means new posts. Which is good.

You can always stalk me on Foursquare, Twitter, Flickr, Instagram and Photosynth.

Talk at you soon!

This year I’m happy to announce that I won Ultimate Mo for all of London! There were a couple of thousand people at the event, which made it a very competitive field, and I was up against some other great mustaches. But my Mo prevailed!

http://uk.movember.com/mospace/964184

For the impatient among us, here’s a bullet-point summary.

1. Allow up to one week for processing.
2. Budget 500 dram per day, plus 10-15% extra.
3. Go to the Passport and Visa Department, room 212.
4. Fill out the right forms, make copies of your passport and visa and deposit money in the right account.
5. Bring all documents back to room 212 for their approval.
6. Bring all documents to room 214.
7. Return when they tell you.

First, make sure you’ve got a few days left on your Visa to begin with. My process will take 3 days, but I would guess that this could take up to a week depending on holidays and weekends. So as soon as you know you’ll need to extend it, start the process. You’ll also need to budget 500 dram for each day you want to stay, plus another say 10-15% for miscellaneous expenses. All together my 5 day extension cost just 2,840 dram, or the equivalent of $7. So it’s more expensive per day than getting a longer visa at the border but can be well worth it. In my case the extension saved me hundreds of dollars on airfare.

To apply you’ll need to go in person to the Passport and Visa Department, located at 13A Mesrop Mashtots Ave. The building is located in the courtyard behind the Artist’s House, which seems to be dedicated to performance music like opera and orchestra. You can enter through the alley just to the left side, when facing that building. Or you can enter through an alley just off of Mashtots on Amiryan St. The walls of this alley are painted with stylized versions of passports, travel documents and official looking stamps. The building itself is up a set of white steps with glass doors. The office is closed between 1-2pm.

The left side shows the location of the Passport and Visa Department. The right side shows the alley into the courtyard from Amiryan St.

Once you enter you’ll go upstairs and to the left, to room 212. Explain what you want to do and they will give you a form to fill in as well as a bank account number to deposit the funds. You’ll also need to make a copy of your passport’s face page and your current Armenian Visa. There are facilities close by to take care of this, see the map below for details. At the bank you’ll likely pay somewhere around a 10-15% transaction fee. To make copies it should be less than 100 dram.

Next you’ll return to the Passport and Visa Department, again to room 212. They will initial your form, tell you when to return and instruct you to take the paperwork to room 214. There you will drop off the paperwork (you keep your passport) and send you on your way.

Go back to their offices when they tell you. Go again to room 212 and tell them that you submitted your paperwork a few days before. They’ll look through a big stack of papers, find yours, take your passport and ask you to wait. 10 or 15 minutes later they’ll get the proper stamps and signatures and return your passport. Easy as can be!

Armenia in General

Now I want to make myself clear up front – I think Armenians are generally a very honest bunch. But it’s hard making a living here. There’s nearly no room for profit and what you do get is usually eaten up by some random thing that comes up like official bribes, injury or having your flower shop run over. So I don’t blame Armenians – or any honest business scammer for that matter – from trying to make an easy Dram or Drachma. But that doesn’t mean I have to just give it up. I refuse to be a stereotypical sucker.

Business Up Front

For a certain segment of the ripoff artists out there, they’re willing to risk a low profit for a huge one. Some taxi drivers, for example, when they see you with bags in a touristy part of town will refuse you the standard fare and will only quote you an exorbitant one. Even if they know there’s only a 50% chance you’ll go with them. If they can make in 30 minutes what they’d normally make in 5 hours they’ll take the chance.

And when you stand up for yourself and refuse to pay that, the up front ripoffs tend to dissolve. They’ll usually let you walk away but will back down and pay your price. If they pay your price then you’re probably still getting ripped off, just not as bad.

There’s a large segment of the population who calculate how much to charge by adding a percentage to the cost. That’s what Marx and Engels argued was the true value of anything. It’s easy to see why they felt that way. But there are several faulty assumptions there, such as assuming no value for time not worked (ie. either infinite time or full time employment), taking risks (ie. someone might pay more for a car than a horse-drawn carriage) and other factors. Thus is the folly of supply-side economics.

Party in the Back

The other typical ripoff is when someone asks you for more just before you’re done. The reason given is usually something like you used more resources than you were supposed to, it took extra long or somehow otherwise you owe extra. Sometimes they will argue about what you agreed on or just simply say they want more. In taxis they might make the excuse that you had bags to put in the trunk, or it is night, or the airport cost is more, or they may just drive around in circles hoping you’ll think it was a long way away. At restaurants they may add extra items to your bill or round up when giving you change.

Not all of these tactics are outright fraud, many are just the custom. If your bill is 10.78 and there are no pennies in the country it may be expected that you’ll pay 10.80 instead. And in some countries there is a higher fare for taxis at night. But these are the exceptions. And if you’ve already negotiated a price, or if the meter is running just pay what you should.

Avoiding Ripoffs

When negotiating up front, don’t feel like you have to buy from a particular vendor. If you don’t know the price of something it’s OK to just ask casually and walk away. Odds are there’s a nicer one of whatever you’re eyeing at a shop a couple of doors down. If you get to the point of negotiating without knowing some relative costs you’re already at a disadvantage. Also know what you’ll pay up front, don’t let them decide that for you. That’s true for services as well as for products.

Don’t back down when asked for more at the end. Agree on a price and stick to it. Show the price written down on your phone’s calculator or similar. Some of these people are just bullies – if you stand up to them they quickly shrink away, but if you let them take advantage of you they’ll keep doing it. And don’t feel like you have to stay engaged, sometimes just walking away will make them stop asking. That’s especially true for taxis where, once you’ve paid the fair fare there isn’t any need to stick around. The taxi driver might call after you a time or two but he’s not going to follow you.

And keep in mind that some people will try both approaches. They’ll beat you up on the front end and at the end they’ll ask for more at the end. I’ve found that typically if you compromise on your price up front they’ll more frequently try to get money at the end. But if you stick to your price they’ll judge you as unlikely to pay.

In some places there are certain signals to make or avoid making. For example in Armenia the travelers who are ethnically Armenian but from a wealthy country tend to speak a different dialect. Locals pick up on that and will try to take advantage of their long-lost cousins. At markets in China the sellers and buyers use hand signals to signify quantity – if you know the hand signals you’re saying that you’ve done this all before and won’t be fooled. And negotiation has its rule of thumb in different places. In some you cut the price in half and offer that; in others you drop a zero or two from the asking price. And it’s always important to know how to check the authenticity of what you’re buying as compared to the knock-offs. For example, silk threads will burn separately, whereas the imitation synthetic materials melt together. You can search for how to spot a fake on the Internet and you’ll be informed when you buy. Often when you show this knowledge the shop keeper will go into the back or reach under the counter for the real stuff, smile at you and treat you with more respect.

Getting ripped off is a part of traveling. When you find out you’ve been rooked, laugh about it. It probably wasn’t for very much and use it as a chance to learn a lesson for next time. Applaud the savvy shopkeeper who can spot a sucker who has more money than sense…even if sometimes that sucker is you.

The first time I visited Paris was my first real trip abroad unchaperoned and fully in control of my own destiny. That journey helped start me on the path to who I am today. I have a lot of great memories of that trip. Now I’m back for a few days and I’ll try to find out what’s changed – both here and within myself – and rediscover my younger self in the process. This is part of a series of my reminiscences of Paris.

After the night of reminiscing in my old Paris neighborhood I woke up relaxed. I lazed around a bit and ran a couple of errands before heading out to the airport. Life was good and I was in no hurry. But my last errand took a bit longer than I’d planned. Not too bad and I’d still have plenty of time, just not enough to take the Metro and train. I’d have to grab a cab instead.

But where we’re they? I asked at the hotel and they pointed me to the nearest Metro stop. It was a couple of minutes walk and there were 2 cabs waiting. But no drivers. What? Why not? I waited by the cars a minute and walked around, waited another minute. No avail. 10 minutes went by and they didn’t show. No taxis driving by on the street either. None. Where are all the taxis in Paris?

So I walked on. Down the metro line looking for cabs. Another taxi stand, another taxi with no driver. Green lights on, ready to go but nobody inside. Had aliens abducted them all? Were they at a taxi driver meetup? What was going on? It was getting late and I needed to get to the airport!

A third taxi stand, three more empty taxis. This was a busier road though. My best shot at a taxi. I saw one drive by with its red lights on, meaning a passenger was inside. Hope at least that there were some taxis in Paris. This hadn’t started out as a quest, but it had turned out to be that way over the last 25 minutes. I wasn’t so worried about getting there for the flight itself, but it hadn’t been possible to check in online. They typically close those down about an hour before departure, and I hadn’t included that in my timing. Who knew the airline would be so backward (well I guess I should have expected that from Armavia – they haven’t gotten beyond the Soviet hey-day). If I got a cab now it would give me just enough time to get there an hour before the flight’s scheduled departure time. Though my flight was delayed 15 minutes according to the Internet, airports close the check in based on scheduled time not counting delays. It’d be close if I got one in the next few minutes. If not, might as well find a cafe and a drink, there’d be no chance.

Just then I saw a taxi. The roof sign covered but definitely a taxi. I flagged and he slowed. I ran over and he asked where I was going. Charles de Gaulle I said. “Get in.”

Yes I was late but now I had hope of making it. It should be about 25 minutes, the driver confirmed. And he’d try his best to hurry along. His English was surprisingly good, thankfully.

On the road the streets were a bit slow. Highway. Time to make up some time. But suddenly a jam. Traffic. “Construction. Past this the road is good.” I hoped he was right. The signs didn’t look good, the mass of cars shone bright red brake lights ahead until the road disappeared around a corner. 5 slow minutes later not much progress. We continued chatting. We passed the construction and the traffic persisted. At the next long pause the driver parked the car and went around to the trunk and came back with a bag. He was getting serious.

He pulled out a large GPS and several wires that he hooked into his other contraptions. He was getting serious. “This tells how long.” the line moved a bit and so did we. “17 minutes.” OK. Still not too bad. Maybe check in ends 45 minutes before this flight. I could still make it. Just. If everything went right.

If not what were my options? First option I to beg, sob and plead to be allowed I check in. I’m not above those tactics. I think this is the last flight of the day back home on any airline. So next check that and try to get on another airline. Last resort get a ticket for tomorrow and a hotel for tonight. But how much would that cost? I remember seeing that changing the flight was a $50 penalty, but what if I missed it? A new ticket probably and 10x that amount. Plus hotel and food. And I would miss my plans tonight and tomorrow.

The GPS screen blinked. “33 minutes now. There is an accident.” Hope ended. I’d arrive less than 30 minutes before the flight. Even on domestic flights the check in area would be closed. Now there was silence in the cab. Not the silence between conversations but the silence of two people who feel defeated. I think the driver was just as bummed as I was. He was trying every trick he knew to get around pockets of congestion, but the ETA remained the same. Finally the traffic broke and he gunned it. He was going much higher than the posted speed limit – something that’s normally frowned upon. But he was shaving every second he could off the time. I had accepted my fate but he refused to give up. I felt as calm as a cow in the back and smiled at him. He smiled back. My attitude was Buddhistic: if there’s something you can do about it then why worry; and if there’s nothing you can do about it then why worry?

“Get your bags,” he said to me as we neared the terminals. I did. The meter read 46 Euro. Higher than normal because of the traffic and delays but no matter. He readied his wallet to change my 50 note. As we pulled up he gave me a 20 in consideration of my troubles. “No keep it all” I replied back. He had taken my troubles on his own shoulders and did all he could. He earned a tip – something not given except in recognition for efforts such as his today. “Bon chance!” he called after me. Indeed.

I saw the check in counters deserted. No one checking in and no one to check people in. No wait, there’s a guy slumped down and on the phone at the far counter. I approached quickly, panting a bit for good effect and gave a big smile. He paused his phone call and began checking me in. Unbelievably, 20 minutes before the flight was supposed to depart he was working to get me on board too. And I realized why when he handed me the boarding card. “Your plane will board at 12:35 – that’s 5 minutes so hurry.”But it was 12:50. He didn’t know what time it was!

Sometimes when you need it most you get a travel angel and a bit of luck. I had that going for me today. As I strode quickly toward the gate I relaxed a little. I was going to make it. The signs had been updates to announce that the flight was delayed a bit more. I stopped in at Duty Free, got a last meal in Paris and awaited my ride home.

After wandering around a bit I found my old neighborhood. The place I remember from a dozen years ago is still right where I left it. I didn’t consciously start out the night trying to find the place, but as I meandered I suddenly realized that I was really close to where I’d had those experiences. I guess on some level I was searching the place out.

When I was prepping for my trip I opened up an old phrasebook (a version of Rick Steves’ French, Italian and German Phrase Book) and found the name of the hotel written there. Now I had at least one fixed landmark to go by. I didn’t look it up online before I went looking. I didn’t want to spoil the adventure. And I didn’t want to find out that it was closed. But that name was a lucky find because it would let me confirm that I was in the right place if it was still there.

So on my last night in Paris I headed out, taking the Metro into town to wander around. When I realized I was close I knew I’d need to try and find it again. I remembered the rough location – on the Left Bank of the Seine just south of Notre Dame cathedral. A couple of streets off the river. But how close to the cathedral? And how many streets over? Who knew.

I found a couple of likely areas on Google Maps on my phone. But time can play tricks and make the location seem closer or farther away. Better to start off, I figured, a short distance away and make my way to where I thought the area might be. That also gave me more time to think back to the last time I was here. I reminisced about the events of that New Year’s Millennium’s Eve fondly.

I passed a number of places that could be the Irish Pub space, but now occupied but something else. That was the biggest target to spot since it was on a corner and had a large front. So I focused on finding that. After about an hour’s meander I saw it. Lit like a beacon. I walked up to Corcoran’s Irish Pub, not quite willing to believe it was the same place. A quick detour down a couple of side streets and I found Delhy’s Hotel. My one confirmed waypoint.

I’d found the places I remembered. I darted into the pub for a quick pint of Guinness and to check the place out. It was just like I remembered. Even down to the cover band that played popular music cover songs, in between Beatles classics. The patrons were all expats from some region or another. It was still as rambunctious as I remember, despite the fact this was only a Thursday and not a holiday period. One beer here was enough to realize it was the same. I could have stayed for more and tried to fit back in here as a regular. But I had changed enough that I didn’t really care to.

I had one more mission in tracking down my memories. That was the 3 fromages sandwich. This sandwich was a staple of our diet a dozen years ago. Cheap and tasty, the sandwich was made with a baguette split down the middle. Mozzarella, bleu and a third mystery cheese piled thick, with tomatoes inside. Once the sandwich was pressed panini style the cheese became a hot, dry, satisfying taste, with the tomato a juicy complement. The sandwich place was still there and still open, the sandwiches still tasted the same and the price was only just a bit more. For my next visit I’ll try and identify the mysterious third cheese.

My foray into the past completed, I headed back to the hotel. Satisfied and bathed in nostalgia I slept happily. But Paris wasn’t through with me yet. She still had one more story to give me. That will wait for the next post.