The other day as I was channel surfing and celebrating being back home in Arizona after another year of teaching English in Mexico City, I came across the movie Outbreak. I remember being horrified when I first saw the film at the age of 11, but having been at the epicenter of the recent H1N1 flu outbreak, I couldn’t help but find the humor in the hyperbolic movie. When I first saw the film, the scene when the infected particles of the sneeze spread throughout the movie theatre invoked fear within me about the intimacy of closely shared space. Seeing the movie now, in light of my recent experiences, helped me to realize that the non-life threatening effects of a flu outbreak can also have a deleterious impact.
There are many precautions people in Mexico City are taking to alleviate the anticipated severity of the flu when winter arrives. For example, many are stocking up on face masks, parents are teaching their kids to sneeze into their elbow instead of their hands (the 1st grade teacher at my school taught her kids to pretend that they’re Dracula, covering their mouth as if using a cape) and people are more willing to use face masks when they are sick with just any minor ailment. I have many scary memories from the first month of the outbreak: the SOLD OUT signs at pharmacies informing us that we had to search elsewhere for the face covers, the late night text messages and calls about school cancellation for an unknown disease, and early speculation as to the origin of the deadly strain of flu. Of these images, the one that will remain most vivid in my mind is that of my 5th graders applying antibacterial hand gel every few minutes in class.
As an adolescent, I was terrified of germs. My behavior wasn’t quite severe enough to be diagnosed as any pathological condition, but I remember hating to touch money, public doorknobs, and even rented sports equipment. I washed my hands often and always seemed, to some extent, to have germs on my mind. When I got to college and started to free myself of the burden of my fear of germs, I enjoyed a great sense of accomplishment. It isn’t that many days ago that I was able to hold the handlebars in the Mexico City metro and pay for my tamal before eating it on the street with no worries. I really feel quite liberated now that I can live my life without antibacterial hand gel. I reached the point where I could think about more important things: “are these men going to cede some space for me to get off at my stop?” “Sweet, I just got a strike on my last frame,” and “What is that landmark on the back of the 50 peso bill that I am casually inspecting?”
For the most part, Mexico City’s new awareness of germs and hand cleanliness marks a pivotal step in illness prevention. It is now common to see antibacterial hand gel at hotdog and taco stands on the street. You are now offered a dab of antibacterial gel upon entering a nightclub, and most schools and many public buildings have signs about proper hand washing. What worried me, though, when I saw all of the bottles of hand gel in the possession of my 5th graders, was that they might become as paranoid as I had at their age.
One thing I have learned while living in Mexico is that it’s ok to not be über clean. The flies at the tianguis, the open-air market, that hop from one raw cut of beef to another don’t seem to be harming anyone, and neither are the mayonnaise and eggs that never get refrigerated.
It took me a long time to find the right balance between cleanliness and the freedom to get a little dirty. I am both excited and optimistic about the possible decline in illnesses caused by a more germ-educated population, but I hope that people do not go overboard with the “antibacterialness” I was so preoccupied with as a young adult. It’s just not good for anyone’s immune system.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Swine Flu
I'm back in Tucson for the week since schools are closed to help contain the Swine Flu epidemic. Upon arriving to the Phoenix airport this afternoon, I was interviewed about my experiences. I'll blog soon about what it's like in Mexico City.
Here's the link:
Here's the link:
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Collective Action/Inaction
The other day I was faced with a minor moral dilemma that I would like to discuss. At around 5:00 am, I was awoken to the sound of someone yelling outside my apartment. My initial reaction was, “holy shit, someone broke into my place and somehow tripped and broke their leg because they’re making way too much noise to be a sly burglar!” Because of my tile floors and lack of abundant furniture, any sound coming from nearby intensifies, causing me to believe that the source of the clamor is inside my living room. Realizing that this could not really be the case, I went to the kitchen where I have a good view of the street behind my apartment. I discovered that the screaming was coming from that direction. Although I could not see the actual man in distress, I could hear him yelling, “auxilio, me roban! Auxilio, me están robando!” He was crying for help because he was being robbed. My first thought was to get my cell phone and call the police. Remembering my college sociology class and the story of the woman who was murdered outside of an apartment building full of onlookers who all assumed that someone else would call the police, I headed to my bedroom for my phone. While I made the trip, I was going over the emergency numbers in my head. Is it 0-6-6 or 0-6-0. Is that for “seguridad publica” or for all emergencies!? I returned to the kitchen, cell phone in hand, and took one more careful look out the window to see if I could catch a glimpse of the victim. It was then that I knew I couldn’t make the call.
Across from where I heard the screams, on the wall of the shadowed building opposite the man in distress, I saw red, white, and blue flashing lights. It was a police car, already having arrived at the scene! How great! Someone already called. Oh how great humankind can be! Relieved to see that the police were there, I headed back to my bedroom to catch a few more minutes of sleep when I heard the same cry as before, “help, I’m being robbed! Help, I’m being robbed!” Remembering uncommon stories of police corruption I have heard during my time in Mexico, and thinking about my close friend Sergio’s experience a month earlier of discovering that the policemen that held his stolen car in custody had taken his valuables from the trunk, I realized that the police officers themselves were robbing this man. I looked at my phone and thought, “what do I do? I’ve got to do something but who the hell do I call now!” I felt horrible. At that moment, hated how helpless I felt. There I was, ready to break the societal tendency of collective inaction, but had no one to call.
Across from where I heard the screams, on the wall of the shadowed building opposite the man in distress, I saw red, white, and blue flashing lights. It was a police car, already having arrived at the scene! How great! Someone already called. Oh how great humankind can be! Relieved to see that the police were there, I headed back to my bedroom to catch a few more minutes of sleep when I heard the same cry as before, “help, I’m being robbed! Help, I’m being robbed!” Remembering uncommon stories of police corruption I have heard during my time in Mexico, and thinking about my close friend Sergio’s experience a month earlier of discovering that the policemen that held his stolen car in custody had taken his valuables from the trunk, I realized that the police officers themselves were robbing this man. I looked at my phone and thought, “what do I do? I’ve got to do something but who the hell do I call now!” I felt horrible. At that moment, hated how helpless I felt. There I was, ready to break the societal tendency of collective inaction, but had no one to call.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Micheladas
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Right now I’m in my warm bedroom (thanks to a few days of warm weather) listening to Alanis Morissette in preparation for her February 16th performance at the National Auditorium. Although I know nothing about her current music, I have nearly the entire Jagged Little Pill album memorized from middle school. I’m excited about the concert because I got five other girls from work to go. So it’ll be a fun girls’ night out which, considering the lack of friends problem I had last year, is very exciting.
As I apply for jobs out of Mexico for next year, I have begun to think about what I will miss about this country when I have moved on. Many things come to mind but there is one item in particular that I won’t have to miss because I’ll be able to prepare it nearly anywhere I go. It is the beverage known as the michelada.
Now, a michelada is not the same thing throughout Mexico. My use of the term comes from the chilango version. When you order a michelada here in Mexico City, you get the beer of your choice with a glass of ice with salt around the rim. In the glass there is the juice of two or three little limes. Carefully you pour the beer into the glass not allowing the foam to touch the salt. On a warm day, this is the most refreshing drink imaginable. Without the salt, the lime juice makes the beer entirely too sour. The trick is to lick off some of the salt from the rim just before letting the beer touch your lips. This allows you to enjoy the taste of the lime without the overwhelming sourness and if you plan it properly, you finish the circle of salt with your last drop of beer.
As I mentioned, it is crucial to pour the beer carefully into the glass. If you allow your gustatory emotions to take over and pour hastily, not only do you ruin your drink, but you also compromise the dry dining experience of your tablemates. Although I haven’t confirmed this with actual chemical science, I’m pretty sure that when you combine airy beer foam, lots of lime, and lots of salt, a strong reaction occurs and nearly half of the contents of the glass overflows. The worst part about this is that the reaction is somewhat delayed and so you pour your beer and look away contently to continue your conversation with your friends and all of a sudden everyone is leaning away from you with a look of fright. So, you look back and with luck you grab your napkin just in time to absorb the beer reaching the edge of the table ready to pour onto the jeans that the day before you had to schlep with all the rest of your laundry eight blocks to the nearest laundromat. I am now a more experienced michelada drinker, and fortunately haven’t had any accidents in the last few months.
If you’re going to order a michelada in Mexico or at a Mexican restaurant in the States, be aware that different regions prepare them in different ways. If you go to the Yucatan, for example, you need to order a chelada to get what I have described. If you order a michelada in Oaxaca, you’ll get beer, ice, lime, as well as a tomato juice and chile mixture that can turn your beer everything from bright red to dark burgundy. I’ve tried a few different varieties of these foreign micheladas but nothing is as refreshing as the simple combination of lime, salt, ice and a good Mexican dark beer.
Right now I’m in my warm bedroom (thanks to a few days of warm weather) listening to Alanis Morissette in preparation for her February 16th performance at the National Auditorium. Although I know nothing about her current music, I have nearly the entire Jagged Little Pill album memorized from middle school. I’m excited about the concert because I got five other girls from work to go. So it’ll be a fun girls’ night out which, considering the lack of friends problem I had last year, is very exciting.
As I apply for jobs out of Mexico for next year, I have begun to think about what I will miss about this country when I have moved on. Many things come to mind but there is one item in particular that I won’t have to miss because I’ll be able to prepare it nearly anywhere I go. It is the beverage known as the michelada.
Now, a michelada is not the same thing throughout Mexico. My use of the term comes from the chilango version. When you order a michelada here in Mexico City, you get the beer of your choice with a glass of ice with salt around the rim. In the glass there is the juice of two or three little limes. Carefully you pour the beer into the glass not allowing the foam to touch the salt. On a warm day, this is the most refreshing drink imaginable. Without the salt, the lime juice makes the beer entirely too sour. The trick is to lick off some of the salt from the rim just before letting the beer touch your lips. This allows you to enjoy the taste of the lime without the overwhelming sourness and if you plan it properly, you finish the circle of salt with your last drop of beer.
As I mentioned, it is crucial to pour the beer carefully into the glass. If you allow your gustatory emotions to take over and pour hastily, not only do you ruin your drink, but you also compromise the dry dining experience of your tablemates. Although I haven’t confirmed this with actual chemical science, I’m pretty sure that when you combine airy beer foam, lots of lime, and lots of salt, a strong reaction occurs and nearly half of the contents of the glass overflows. The worst part about this is that the reaction is somewhat delayed and so you pour your beer and look away contently to continue your conversation with your friends and all of a sudden everyone is leaning away from you with a look of fright. So, you look back and with luck you grab your napkin just in time to absorb the beer reaching the edge of the table ready to pour onto the jeans that the day before you had to schlep with all the rest of your laundry eight blocks to the nearest laundromat. I am now a more experienced michelada drinker, and fortunately haven’t had any accidents in the last few months.
If you’re going to order a michelada in Mexico or at a Mexican restaurant in the States, be aware that different regions prepare them in different ways. If you go to the Yucatan, for example, you need to order a chelada to get what I have described. If you order a michelada in Oaxaca, you’ll get beer, ice, lime, as well as a tomato juice and chile mixture that can turn your beer everything from bright red to dark burgundy. I’ve tried a few different varieties of these foreign micheladas but nothing is as refreshing as the simple combination of lime, salt, ice and a good Mexican dark beer.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Memorial in Calimaya
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Last Sunday I went to a town near Toluca called Calimaya. It was the Sunday marking the date of the third anniversary of the death of Mau’s maternal grandmother and all of the family met up to go to mass and to visit her grave. Mau and Sergio and I took off around 9:30 that morning and arrived a bit late to the mass. This was no big deal, however because we barely beat his parents who arrived late because they had to pick up flowers on the way. The church, in session for a regular Sunday mass, was packed so much that there were people standing in the entrance. We would have had to arrive an hour early to get seats.
Mau and some of his cousins and I hung out outside while the mass finished. I found myself fascinated by the tower of paper dolls men were setting up outside. It was about 30 feet tall and consisted of 6 square platforms where the paper dolls stood. It was very colorful and had wires coming down with toys attached. The wire was filled with gunpowder. They lit the structure and little by little the dolls spun around and then exploded, much to my surprise. This was my reaction, “Aww, look at those cute colorful dolls. Oh, and now it’s dancing. Kabloom! Geeze, how terrible! Those poor little dolls, each one having to meet its death in a fiery explosion.” The good thing about this exploding doll tower, similar to what they call a “torito,” is that it does serve a beneficial purpose: when the wires are lit, they release toys that fall to the ground for children to collect. The higher the toys, the better they get. At the bottom there were little plastic pales and water guns and at the top there were soccer balls. The kids weren’t held back by their parents since they had to vie for the toys. Fortunately this gun powder-filled structure ignited gradually and as planned, but I cringe at the thought of the accidents that have occurred with the “torito.”
The Church in Calimaya, Estado de Mexico
A torito in Calimaya
After mass finished I met the members of Mau’s mom’s family. We then headed to the cemetery where we prepared the grave with flowers for the prayer. The cemetery was like none I have ever seen. It was indicative of aspects of Latin America but also of a region so close to Mexico City. Here in Mexico one sees the stark differences between the upper and lower class on a daily basis. I work in one of the richest and newly developed areas of the city but on the way you pass by the hills of the Mexico City shantytowns. On the way home form work on a street called Palmas, I stand in the $.20 bus along with construction workers, painters, and cleaning women, while waiting in traffic alongside the BMWs and Audis of the people who live on Palmas and in Polanco.
In this cemetery, there were marble and stone mausoleums literally next to unmarked lumps of dirt. Some of the families of this town are so poor, that they apparently could not afford even a simple grave marker. The nice mausoleums aren’t at all indicative of the wealth of the town of Calimaya since there isn’t much. Instead, these little chapels are more indicative of the money families are willing to spend (presumably money that would be better spent on new tires for the family car, food, and medical supplies) for religious purposes. The jam-packed church and the number of families willing so spend hundreds of dollars on a mausoleum for their relatives shows the strong ties to religion held by the people of Calimaya.
Between the little chapels spread throughout the cemetery were plots with tile borders, plots marked with wooden crosses, and some areas simply marked with a long mound of dirt and some over-turned rusty tin cans. These cans are used to hold the flowers that families bring when they visit the grave on certain days such as the Day of the Dead. While not being used, they turn over the cans so they do not collect water. It is very sad to think that there are some families with so few resources that they cannot even afford glass vases or grave markers. Or, they can’t use nice vases at the risk of their being stolen. Finally, all of the plots, throughout the entire cemetery, were packed one after another so there was hardly any space to walk between them. I imagine that all cemeteries near and in Mexico City are equally full as there are just so many people here.
One thing I got to thinking about as I looked at the plots practically one on top of another, was the option of cremation. Why, if people can’t even afford what I and many others would consider a proper burial site, don’t people use cremation. This brings up interesting religious and economic questions. First, although the Roman Catholic Church no longer officially bans cremation, it is highly discouraged and therefore cremation is definitely not an option for the people of Calimaya. Also, there are economic implications when it comes to cremation in Mexico. Since cremation is religiously (and culturally as a result) not common, simple economic reasons explain that unlike in more secular nations, it isn’t a cheaper alternative to the traditional burial practice. At one of the fancy funeral homes here in Mexico City, it costs about $3,000 US dollars when in the States, in Phoenix for example, a cremation service costs a little over $500. It’s simple supply and demand.
After briefly holding a prayer for Mau’s grandmother, we headed to the house where she used to live in Calimya. Aunts and uncles brought food and we feasted on chicken and molé, carnitas, chicharrón, grilled chicken and potatoes, and tinga de carne molida. This happed to be the Sunday of the European Soccer Cup finals and fortunately one of Mau’s cousins brought a TV to hook up to watch the game. So, instead of the meal being a solemn time to remember loved ones, we watched soccer. Spain beat Germany in a much deserved victory.
Last Sunday I went to a town near Toluca called Calimaya. It was the Sunday marking the date of the third anniversary of the death of Mau’s maternal grandmother and all of the family met up to go to mass and to visit her grave. Mau and Sergio and I took off around 9:30 that morning and arrived a bit late to the mass. This was no big deal, however because we barely beat his parents who arrived late because they had to pick up flowers on the way. The church, in session for a regular Sunday mass, was packed so much that there were people standing in the entrance. We would have had to arrive an hour early to get seats.
Mau and some of his cousins and I hung out outside while the mass finished. I found myself fascinated by the tower of paper dolls men were setting up outside. It was about 30 feet tall and consisted of 6 square platforms where the paper dolls stood. It was very colorful and had wires coming down with toys attached. The wire was filled with gunpowder. They lit the structure and little by little the dolls spun around and then exploded, much to my surprise. This was my reaction, “Aww, look at those cute colorful dolls. Oh, and now it’s dancing. Kabloom! Geeze, how terrible! Those poor little dolls, each one having to meet its death in a fiery explosion.” The good thing about this exploding doll tower, similar to what they call a “torito,” is that it does serve a beneficial purpose: when the wires are lit, they release toys that fall to the ground for children to collect. The higher the toys, the better they get. At the bottom there were little plastic pales and water guns and at the top there were soccer balls. The kids weren’t held back by their parents since they had to vie for the toys. Fortunately this gun powder-filled structure ignited gradually and as planned, but I cringe at the thought of the accidents that have occurred with the “torito.”
The Church in Calimaya, Estado de Mexico
A torito in Calimaya
After mass finished I met the members of Mau’s mom’s family. We then headed to the cemetery where we prepared the grave with flowers for the prayer. The cemetery was like none I have ever seen. It was indicative of aspects of Latin America but also of a region so close to Mexico City. Here in Mexico one sees the stark differences between the upper and lower class on a daily basis. I work in one of the richest and newly developed areas of the city but on the way you pass by the hills of the Mexico City shantytowns. On the way home form work on a street called Palmas, I stand in the $.20 bus along with construction workers, painters, and cleaning women, while waiting in traffic alongside the BMWs and Audis of the people who live on Palmas and in Polanco.
In this cemetery, there were marble and stone mausoleums literally next to unmarked lumps of dirt. Some of the families of this town are so poor, that they apparently could not afford even a simple grave marker. The nice mausoleums aren’t at all indicative of the wealth of the town of Calimaya since there isn’t much. Instead, these little chapels are more indicative of the money families are willing to spend (presumably money that would be better spent on new tires for the family car, food, and medical supplies) for religious purposes. The jam-packed church and the number of families willing so spend hundreds of dollars on a mausoleum for their relatives shows the strong ties to religion held by the people of Calimaya.
Between the little chapels spread throughout the cemetery were plots with tile borders, plots marked with wooden crosses, and some areas simply marked with a long mound of dirt and some over-turned rusty tin cans. These cans are used to hold the flowers that families bring when they visit the grave on certain days such as the Day of the Dead. While not being used, they turn over the cans so they do not collect water. It is very sad to think that there are some families with so few resources that they cannot even afford glass vases or grave markers. Or, they can’t use nice vases at the risk of their being stolen. Finally, all of the plots, throughout the entire cemetery, were packed one after another so there was hardly any space to walk between them. I imagine that all cemeteries near and in Mexico City are equally full as there are just so many people here.
One thing I got to thinking about as I looked at the plots practically one on top of another, was the option of cremation. Why, if people can’t even afford what I and many others would consider a proper burial site, don’t people use cremation. This brings up interesting religious and economic questions. First, although the Roman Catholic Church no longer officially bans cremation, it is highly discouraged and therefore cremation is definitely not an option for the people of Calimaya. Also, there are economic implications when it comes to cremation in Mexico. Since cremation is religiously (and culturally as a result) not common, simple economic reasons explain that unlike in more secular nations, it isn’t a cheaper alternative to the traditional burial practice. At one of the fancy funeral homes here in Mexico City, it costs about $3,000 US dollars when in the States, in Phoenix for example, a cremation service costs a little over $500. It’s simple supply and demand.
After briefly holding a prayer for Mau’s grandmother, we headed to the house where she used to live in Calimya. Aunts and uncles brought food and we feasted on chicken and molé, carnitas, chicharrón, grilled chicken and potatoes, and tinga de carne molida. This happed to be the Sunday of the European Soccer Cup finals and fortunately one of Mau’s cousins brought a TV to hook up to watch the game. So, instead of the meal being a solemn time to remember loved ones, we watched soccer. Spain beat Germany in a much deserved victory.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Best Weekend Yet
Tuesday
November 6, 2007
The weekend of the concerts was the first time where I really felt that I have gotten past the frustrating aspects of the city and started to really enjoy it. Going to see Jorge Drexler was the first big city/latin opportunity I feel I took advantage of, but the weekend of the music festival and The Cure was distinct because not only did I see some amazing bands, but I hung out with a lot of locals and did some activities unique to the city. Also that weekend, now that I am looking back on it, was when I started to realize that I was beginning to have some pretty well established friends.
The motorokrfest started early on Friday so to help me out, Homero (a friend of Mauricio from high school) picked me up from school on his way down from Toluca. He and his and Mau’s friend Alejandra was with him too. I had met Homero twice before. The first time was at a bar in Toluca and the second time was when he came to town for a conference. Hanging out with Mau’s friends is always great because I learn more Spanish, I learn more of the subtle cultural intricacies,* and they’re fun. Mau noticed after seeing me with both his high school friends and his college friends that I seem to be more comfortable with the former group. Recently I have been thinking about it and I think that since they’re from high school and not from his political science college, they are more diverse. For example, Homero is an architect, Marlen is in marketing, and Tavo works for a Japanese car company. I ended up getting to know Homero and Alejandra quite well on the way to the “Foro Sol” since the traffic was horrible. He picked me up at 3:30 and we arrived around 5:30 or 6:00. I always thought it was going to be a tough transition when I finally get settled somewhere and I no longer have the 8 minute bike ride to campus and the 2 minute bike ride to work at the Inn. However, living in Mexico City is going to make living nearly anywhere else a breeze when it comes to my future commute. I can’t wait to be able to laugh at myself in retrospect. Until then, I will take advantage of the traffic and get to know my traveling companions.
The concert was unbelievable. The baseball stadium wasn’t completely packed but I do remember walking to it from the pedestrian overpass and seeing the sea of people on the field in front of the main stage. The most impressive thing was not the amount of people, but the fact that of this crowd of people, all I could see was black hair. Yep, I’m a white girl in the middle of Mexico City. The other striking thing was that for the first time since I graduated college, I was actually surrounded by people my age. It was a fantastic feeling.
Of the bands I saw, I was mostly impressed with the Killers, Molotov, and El Instituto Mexicano del Sonido. Incubus wasn’t too great and The Dandy Warhols, although I have gotten to love their music, played too early for them to really rock. Being able to see Molotov was a very special experience. One thing I will always remember, which is one main point that separates the Mexican Indie/Hipster crowd from their American counterparts, is that in the US, an indie crowd would never listen to the hip-hop/rap/rock that is Molotov. But, Molotov is so important to Mexican culture that no matter what music you prefer, if you are young, liberal, and Mexican, you are going to rock out to Molotov.
In addition to giant cups of beer that were sold at the Foro Sol, fans were offered quite the selection of snacks. To accompany your Sol or Indio, you could enjoy a doughnut, Cheetos, personal pizza (Hawaiian or pepperoni), or a cup of hot ramen. Yes your read correctly, Top Ramen, or Maruchan as they call it here, is quite the popular (and apparently normal) concert snack. At the The Cure concert which was in an indoor stadium called the Palacio de los Deportes, vendors were selling candied apples as well as Ramen, beer, and doughnuts.
After the Friday night show, Homero, Marlen, Tavo, Alejandra, Mauricio, and I went out for tacos in La Condesa. The next day we met for a late breakfast in the Mercado of Coyoacan. To get there, we decided to give Alejandra an introduction to the metro of Mexico City. Although it was just one stop, we figured that since it was a tranquil Saturday morning, it would be a good first time for her. It made me happy that I, as a gringa, got to teach a Mexican the ways of public transportation. Breakfast was frustrating as I am still not in love with much of the food here. They all had quesadillas and I ended up having chicken soup. After eating we all walked around Coyoacan (my favorite place) and parted ways since Alejandra had a meeting she had to get to back in Toluca that afternoon.
My day didn’t stop then. Mauricio and I headed back to his apartment just in time to have lunch (yeah – and I wonder why I haven’t lost any weight here) with his parents, Sergio, and his girlfriend Alejandra. His mom had made delicious taquitos de papa, pollo, y frijoles. I love spending time with them because we laugh and joke a lot and they make me feel very comfortable. One interesting conversation we had was about sleeping on the job. Sergio Sr. used to go to the movies during the afternoon just to get some sleep between shifts when he used to work longer hours. To this day, apparently, he can’t stay away when he goes to the movies. Sergio, being that he is in residency, obviously sleeps often at the hospital, and I told them of my long naps in the corner of my classroom. We joked that some morning my kids are going to walk in on me sleeping at one of their desks. This conversation made me realize that I need to start cracking down on the “don’t come in if you don’t see me in the classroom” policy that I have loosely established with my students.
Later that night I went to a Halloween party that Sarah threw. It was great to be able to balance Mexican social gatherings with more international ones as I am happy to be able to speak English every once in a while. I have so much more to tell but it’s late and I need to start thinking about my field hockey and Day of the Dead entries.
Good night and as always, comments are welcome.
* One example, which I haven’t quite gotten used to (and have suffered as a result), is that in Mexico, friends say cheers (salud) for seemingly random reasons. In the US, saying cheers is a somewhat formal act. The custom, at least for me and the people who have taught me, is to look everyone in the eye, say cheers, and take a drink. If you don’t do one of those things, you are either considered to be rude or are stricken with bad luck. Here in Mexico, someone will propose “salud” for whatever les da las ganas. People say “salud” if a random feeling of happiness overcomes them, if someone shares a good memory, or even if someone spills. For pure reasons of survival, and sobriety, Mexicans don’t always drink when they clank glasses. That’s where the suffering (if you can call it that) comes in for me. Holding true my superstitions, I have had to adjust my sip size when drinking under conditions where much “salud” is wished upon by my drinking companions.
November 6, 2007
The weekend of the concerts was the first time where I really felt that I have gotten past the frustrating aspects of the city and started to really enjoy it. Going to see Jorge Drexler was the first big city/latin opportunity I feel I took advantage of, but the weekend of the music festival and The Cure was distinct because not only did I see some amazing bands, but I hung out with a lot of locals and did some activities unique to the city. Also that weekend, now that I am looking back on it, was when I started to realize that I was beginning to have some pretty well established friends.
The motorokrfest started early on Friday so to help me out, Homero (a friend of Mauricio from high school) picked me up from school on his way down from Toluca. He and his and Mau’s friend Alejandra was with him too. I had met Homero twice before. The first time was at a bar in Toluca and the second time was when he came to town for a conference. Hanging out with Mau’s friends is always great because I learn more Spanish, I learn more of the subtle cultural intricacies,* and they’re fun. Mau noticed after seeing me with both his high school friends and his college friends that I seem to be more comfortable with the former group. Recently I have been thinking about it and I think that since they’re from high school and not from his political science college, they are more diverse. For example, Homero is an architect, Marlen is in marketing, and Tavo works for a Japanese car company. I ended up getting to know Homero and Alejandra quite well on the way to the “Foro Sol” since the traffic was horrible. He picked me up at 3:30 and we arrived around 5:30 or 6:00. I always thought it was going to be a tough transition when I finally get settled somewhere and I no longer have the 8 minute bike ride to campus and the 2 minute bike ride to work at the Inn. However, living in Mexico City is going to make living nearly anywhere else a breeze when it comes to my future commute. I can’t wait to be able to laugh at myself in retrospect. Until then, I will take advantage of the traffic and get to know my traveling companions.
The concert was unbelievable. The baseball stadium wasn’t completely packed but I do remember walking to it from the pedestrian overpass and seeing the sea of people on the field in front of the main stage. The most impressive thing was not the amount of people, but the fact that of this crowd of people, all I could see was black hair. Yep, I’m a white girl in the middle of Mexico City. The other striking thing was that for the first time since I graduated college, I was actually surrounded by people my age. It was a fantastic feeling.
Of the bands I saw, I was mostly impressed with the Killers, Molotov, and El Instituto Mexicano del Sonido. Incubus wasn’t too great and The Dandy Warhols, although I have gotten to love their music, played too early for them to really rock. Being able to see Molotov was a very special experience. One thing I will always remember, which is one main point that separates the Mexican Indie/Hipster crowd from their American counterparts, is that in the US, an indie crowd would never listen to the hip-hop/rap/rock that is Molotov. But, Molotov is so important to Mexican culture that no matter what music you prefer, if you are young, liberal, and Mexican, you are going to rock out to Molotov.
In addition to giant cups of beer that were sold at the Foro Sol, fans were offered quite the selection of snacks. To accompany your Sol or Indio, you could enjoy a doughnut, Cheetos, personal pizza (Hawaiian or pepperoni), or a cup of hot ramen. Yes your read correctly, Top Ramen, or Maruchan as they call it here, is quite the popular (and apparently normal) concert snack. At the The Cure concert which was in an indoor stadium called the Palacio de los Deportes, vendors were selling candied apples as well as Ramen, beer, and doughnuts.
After the Friday night show, Homero, Marlen, Tavo, Alejandra, Mauricio, and I went out for tacos in La Condesa. The next day we met for a late breakfast in the Mercado of Coyoacan. To get there, we decided to give Alejandra an introduction to the metro of Mexico City. Although it was just one stop, we figured that since it was a tranquil Saturday morning, it would be a good first time for her. It made me happy that I, as a gringa, got to teach a Mexican the ways of public transportation. Breakfast was frustrating as I am still not in love with much of the food here. They all had quesadillas and I ended up having chicken soup. After eating we all walked around Coyoacan (my favorite place) and parted ways since Alejandra had a meeting she had to get to back in Toluca that afternoon.
My day didn’t stop then. Mauricio and I headed back to his apartment just in time to have lunch (yeah – and I wonder why I haven’t lost any weight here) with his parents, Sergio, and his girlfriend Alejandra. His mom had made delicious taquitos de papa, pollo, y frijoles. I love spending time with them because we laugh and joke a lot and they make me feel very comfortable. One interesting conversation we had was about sleeping on the job. Sergio Sr. used to go to the movies during the afternoon just to get some sleep between shifts when he used to work longer hours. To this day, apparently, he can’t stay away when he goes to the movies. Sergio, being that he is in residency, obviously sleeps often at the hospital, and I told them of my long naps in the corner of my classroom. We joked that some morning my kids are going to walk in on me sleeping at one of their desks. This conversation made me realize that I need to start cracking down on the “don’t come in if you don’t see me in the classroom” policy that I have loosely established with my students.
Later that night I went to a Halloween party that Sarah threw. It was great to be able to balance Mexican social gatherings with more international ones as I am happy to be able to speak English every once in a while. I have so much more to tell but it’s late and I need to start thinking about my field hockey and Day of the Dead entries.
Good night and as always, comments are welcome.
* One example, which I haven’t quite gotten used to (and have suffered as a result), is that in Mexico, friends say cheers (salud) for seemingly random reasons. In the US, saying cheers is a somewhat formal act. The custom, at least for me and the people who have taught me, is to look everyone in the eye, say cheers, and take a drink. If you don’t do one of those things, you are either considered to be rude or are stricken with bad luck. Here in Mexico, someone will propose “salud” for whatever les da las ganas. People say “salud” if a random feeling of happiness overcomes them, if someone shares a good memory, or even if someone spills. For pure reasons of survival, and sobriety, Mexicans don’t always drink when they clank glasses. That’s where the suffering (if you can call it that) comes in for me. Holding true my superstitions, I have had to adjust my sip size when drinking under conditions where much “salud” is wished upon by my drinking companions.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Photos from my concert weekend
Some of my 5th graders workingEating breakfast with Mau's friends who went to the concert Friday night
My 2nd grade class
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