Impassioned Serenity: Mexico v. 2.0

WARNING: The first three paragraphs of this post are a bitter tirade. If you do not care to read about the writer's loathing for passport-carrying bros and their hos, please advance to the fourth paragraph. Thank you.

When I was in college, I never took vacation during Spring Break. No Cancun, no Tampa, not even a trip to New York for the Big East tournament (although this would have been a great year to go -- P I T T Let's Go Pitt!). But this past week, I found myself picking my way through the Atlanta airport among throngs of flip-flop wearing, beach towel toting college kids, all on their way to the warm sun of the Caribbean/Latin America. It wasn't until I started praying that I'd be seated as far away as possible from these rowdy packs that I realized that what I scheduled as a week-long visit with a friend in Puebla, Mexico coincided with the unholy institution to which hordes of pale kids in Greek-letter t-shirts loudly declared their loyalty at least a dozen times a day -- "Spring Break '08!"

Air travel isn't something I generally enjoy. It involves long lines, hours of seated boredom, and lots of fossil fuel. But generally, the benefits outweigh the annoyances -- it's fast, it's uncomplicated, and it's fairly affordable if you do your booking right. I recommend it to strangers who say they have never left the country. I tell them to buy the cheapest ticket they can find and purchase the Lonely Planet guide for their destination; trips are easy to plan. But I would never, ever recommend that anyone try a taste of travel during the chaos and obscenity that is Spring Break. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I need to take a shower -- hot water beating into my scalp and loud, shower door-enhanced singing are the only things that can block out the memories of the insanity.

I am all for rowdiness and fun. Give me some beers and tickets to the game, and I'm set for hours of cheers and jeers. Switch out the tickets for a handful of good friends and a stack of red Solo cups, and things will only get better. But maneuvering myself through pockets of (soon to be) hungover students after navigating check-in lines, immigration, and customs, well that's just the straw that breaks the traveler's back.

Between ugly experiences at the airport, I enjoyed a week of sunshine and tortillas in Puebla, Mexico. It was nothing more than a week of art museums, afternoon walks, and hot drinks in the evening, but it was an ideal escape from suburban Maryland. In Puebla (city), I saw an exhibit of Julio Galan. Critics say his work is Kahlo-esque, and I think they're right. But whereas the meaning of Kahlo's work is sometimes so obvious it violently hits the viewer like an anvil to the cranium, Galan's paintings force viewers to create their own interpretations. His work is interactive: his paintings are a question and he left few clues as to his original intentions before his untimely death in 2006. The discovery of Galan was uplifting for me. It gives me someone new about whom to wonder, read, and talk. I want to see more of his works, so the discovery gives me a new treasure to hunt, too.

Back in Cholula, where I was staying, I experienced another highlight of my trip: Container City. I was walking through the town with my friend Erick one evening when I saw a sign for Container City (red with white letters), posted on a high pole a couple blocks ahead. As we neared the sight, I saw a number of large containers, much like the kind people use to store their belongings on their driveways during home renovations or as they prepare for a move. "Oh, self-storage," I thought to myself. For some reason, it struck me as strange that a self-storage facility would be necessary in a town like Cholula. People didn't seem to have all that much "stuff." But then I remembered that it's a college town, and I concluded that self-storage, although costly, is a logical solution for many nomadic college students.

Well, all my thinking was for naught. Container City is not a self-storage company. It's a city within a city.

A students at UDLA, the largest university in Cholula, came up with the idea fairly recently. The containers, which were indeed initially designed for self-storage, are modified slightly. Each of them has at least one wall of glass, usually sliding doors. These window/walls face the interior of the "city," which is why I didn't see them from the street. Companies of various kinds rent the units as store fronts. There is a fashion boutique, a salon, and even a tea house. Originally, the brains behind this project had intended to rent some of the units as small apartments, but this idea wasn't too popular. Although the units are large enough to house a bar and three tables or four clothing racks, they'd be quite cramped as living space. And in a town where rental properties abound, they just didn't appeal as homes. But they definitely appeal as commercial space (at least to me).

I don't know how many units comprise the entire city, but a good estimate would be something like 20. I visited only a handful, and by far my favorite was the Mandala tea house. Mandala was set near the city's entrance, but far enough from the street that it gave me the feeling that I'd discovered something secret when I stepped in. From it's entrance, you face a wall of glass jars, each filled with tea bags of the exotic nature from all over the world. As you approach the bar, the tea maiden (that's not really her title, but I like how it sounds), takes two or three jars from the wall and brings them to you for a sniff. These are her recommendations (which she makes based solely on your appearance). They're always dead-on. The first time I entered Mandala, I was offered an Indian black tea and a South African vanilla. The first was meant to be served in water, the latter in milk. I wasn't in a milky tea mood, so I opted for the Indian black. While waiting for the tea maiden to prepare my drink (which she did with the utmost care and the use of at least three different technologically-advanced tea machines), I took a seat at one of the small, low tables. Across from me, a large East Asia-inspired mural charmed my eyes with its swirls of cool colors and serene faces. My gaze shifted to the table beside me, and I spotted a book, "20,000 Secrets of Tea" by Victoria Zak. I began to leaf through it and soon found myself completely engrossed. There were profiles of hundreds of herbs, charts listing which can be used as treatments for which ailments, and pages of herb history. I've never been a tea aficionado, but this book called out to me like Straight Jacket to Shaun Brumder. I found a new passion.

I went back to Mandala two more times that week. Container City was so comfortable -- intimate, young, efficient. The setting was as inspiring as the tea itself. Using containers as storefronts was cheaper than construction, used fewer materials, was gentler on the environment, and gave each business an automatic audience of interested potential customers. I was surprised that I had never before heard of such an arrangement but certain that it must be in used elsewhere.

Check out this site and containercity.com for more information about these pre-fab wonders. I'm off to relax with a cup of oolong tea before the next round of the NCAA men's tournament.