Still, as I’m constantly discovering, modern, urban Mexico is no tourist’s playground. As an outsider, I am met with conflicting expectations. Though Mexican pop culture is almost universally Americanized, it is still uncool to be a gringo in Mexico. The society seems to recognize only Hollywood icons and awkward tourists; and so on my side, every new interaction begins somewhere between a clumsy toddler and Brad Pitt. No matter how well I assimilate the culture and language, these expectations seem entrenched in my appearance as a guero. I find them in every passing glance as I walk down the street, blending in like unattended baggage in an airport.
Of course, I arrived in Mexico with my own expectations, which have been upset in large part thanks to two essential discoveries. The first contradicts the postcard image that many tourists take home from Mexico -- sanitized beaches, accommodating waiters and towering resorts -- and replaces it with the real chaos of an unofficial tourist economy that is a good deal grittier. The second intrudes on a more private dimension that seems entirely foreign to our American perspective: the unsettling Mexican irreverence for death.
I. Ad Hoc Economy
Near Uruapan, about a two-hour drive from Morelia, is New San Juan. Its predecessor, Old San Juan, was destroyed in 1943 by a volcano that rose unexpectedly out of a farmer’s cornfield. All that remains of the original city are two broken church towers rising up over miles of hardened lava fields. Nearby, a tourists’ camp with taquerias, stray dogs and an old caballero selling horse rides offers an oasis to visitors who’ll pay to be accompanied on the semi-religious experience of exploring what’s left of the cathedral.
I found San Juan to be a working example of the de facto tourist industry in Mexico, where the march of Americanization has not yet managed to stamp out local culture. A dedicated branch of government officially oversees tourism in Mexico, but spots like these, far removed from the glistening beaches, are often overlooked. Here in Old San Juan, as in similar locations across the country, control lies in the hands of indigenous craftsmen, tortilla chefs, and tour guides. It’s easy to tax bus tours, theater tickets and hotels; however, it’s impossible to regulate the street side sale of handwoven clothing and the greasy taco stands that leech electricity from power lines. The challenge of oversight is in fact so large that it threatens to cripple the national economy. A recent study by the Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas indicated that untaxed, unrecognized businesses such as these account for nearly a third of Mexico’s gross national product.
Though a continuing headache for the tax bureau, this system seems unlikely to change anytime soon. In a country where speeding seems exclusively regulated by speed bumps and bribes and nepotism still greases the wheels of government, cracking down on street vendors doesn’t appear to be among the reform priorities. While it survives, the status quo is rewarding for vendors and visitors alike. Though I found the ruins of Monte Alban incredible, they did not speak for themselves. Instead, a native Zapotec speaker gave them a voice in his retelling of their legends and history. Mountains of dead stone are only so inspiring; it takes the context provided by the locals and indigenous peoples to bring them to life. The potential for an intimate cultural experience exists only because the Mexican government has failed to saran-wrap all of the nation’s tourist destinations into 100 shiny clones of Acapulco. Just as Mexican culture survives at the dim, crowded taco stand in front of the glowing McDonald’s, history lives in the accepted chaos surrounding the excavated ruins.
II. Irreverence of Death Being raised in a Western culture has trained me to believe that death is a solemn affair. We beatify the dead, as though the act of dying bestows dignity or perfects life’s collected flaws. In Mexico, though, death and the inevitability of its return are celebrated. I could not help but find the wry, festive grin that Mexicans affix to their skeletons slightly uncanny. The contradiction strikes me. Though Mexicans link death and mourning, celebration is just as close. The death of a loved one calls for a somber gathering with friends and family taking part in a service and burial. As a concept, however, death is danced with and mocked. This is never more apparent than on el Dia de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead, when Mexico combines nostalgia with open mockery in a celebration welcoming the returning spirits of loved ones. This culture-wide catharsis could not be in greater contrast to the American perception of death.
Some see this morbid intimacy as a trace of the Mayan and Aztec celebration of transcendence. Others see a resemblance to the classic model of a deeply vulnerable playground bully, who lashes out in mockery so as not to admit his own fear. In America, we seem to repress this fear by ignoring it; in Mexico, they confront it and laugh. Octavio Paz describes this concept of compensation by suggesting that the Mexican cult of death is a way of expressing indifference towards life. In The Labyrinth of Solitude, he writes:
"All this boastful familiarity does not rid us of the question we all ask: What is death? ... And each time we ask, we shrug our shoulders: Why should I care about death if I have never cared about life?”
Eventually, what became perfectly clear to me about the Mexican concept of death is that it could not be reduced to a clever maxim or a passage in any Spanish textbook. When I first "studied” the Day of the Dead in junior high, I crafted a dancing skeleton out of construction paper and shared pan de muertos with my classmates. My understanding was simple, and felt complete.
Spending time in Mexico complicated my cultural understanding far beyond my early assumptions and taught me a few dangers of naïve generalization. From a distance, we are often tempted to reduce aspects of complex human cultures into packages we can understand, either by translating them into our own ideas or neutering them in descriptive passages. Deeper scrutiny and intimacy reveal complex sentiments that do not fit into our familiar categories, but paradoxically, that very complexity makes the culture feel more human. Though I’ll always be a stranger to Mexico, it has become less foreign to me. 
Martin Miller is a junior English major from Fayetteville, Arkansas.