La Combi

Everyday, I walk to the corner of my street and wait for the combi. Most cities in Mexico have buses, but Matamoros (as the locals call it) is too small, and a normal bus wouldn't fit on all the narrow streets. The "combi" is a rounded van with all its comfy seats replaced with benches, sometimes cushioned, sometimes not. It fits about 12 comfortably, but most often there are about 20 people crammed into the minibus. The last passengers to get on have to stand and hold on to the overhead bar. There is no air conditioning, and sometimes the windows are broken so they are locked shut.

The university is about 3 miles away, which takes 20 minutes. Sometimes I think about pulling out my iPad and reading for a bit, but I resist the urge because that would be weird. My stop is early, so I usually have my choice of seating. I try to sit with my back to the driver because one feels the bumps less, and I don't have to hold back the gasps as we almost hit a stray dog or bicyclist. I also get the breeze from the open front windows. My duty for this prime seat is to pass up the fares to the driver. It cost $5.50 (that's pesos) which is about 55 cents for us. Teachers get a 5 cent discount.

Today, the combi ride is worse than usual. I wake up at 5:00 am with Montezuma's revenge (I swear it was the mayo), and by noon i still feel a little queasy but decide staying in would only make me feel worse. So, I brave the combi.

To keep my mind off of my rumbling stomach, I watch as various people board the cramped quarters. One thing I have noticed is you always greet the passengers when you board. "Buenos días" if it's morning, and "Buenas tardes" if it's afternoon. A few teenagers are too cool for this tradition but for the most part, it happens each time the door opens and someone gets in.

Today, two teenage boys enter with a big bag of Sabroso chips. I'm instantly annoyed because 1) I love this type of chili powdered chip, but there is no way I can eat anything with chili powder and 2) they are eating them noisily. Crunch, crunch, "buenos días", crunch. Well, at least they are semi-polite. I feel a little better.

More people get on, a mother with three small children. They are dressed in uniforms, and all three say, "buenos días" as they find a place to sit. The bus driver takes off before they are seated, and the little one stumbles. A fellow rider steadies him as he makes his way towards his mom. No car seat laws here...

Then two elderly women board, both carrying large pots of flowers. The two teenage boys immediately greet them and take their heavy pots for them. As more people get on, the boys move the pots out of the way, making room for more passengers. All the while they are chatting with the other passengers politely. The ladies' stop nears, and the boys make sure they get off safely.

I pass the boys' fare to the driver and receive a "gracias" and smile in return.

I'm told this type of behavior is special to Matamoros; you wouldn't see it in a bigger city such as Puebla. I'm smiling now too. I'm happy I'm riding in a combi.

New Friends

So I am going to meet up with some friends to watch the game tonight. Of course by the "game" I mean the soccer match between México and Brasil (yes, I purposely spelled it like that).

Here are a few of the characters I have met so far.

Gonzalo is tall with long gray hair pulled back in a pony tail and a sharply carved face, much like Native Americans of the US. He has spent over five years in Oklahoma and loves to impress me with his hilarious Americanisms. When he speaks English has a hippie-like accent. Shheet, man. That's how he ends every English sentence. It always makes me smile when nonnative speakers swear in casual conversation. It's too charming and funny to be offensive. He loves teaching and puts countless hours into his classes.

Coco (short for Socorro) is my mentor and my jefa (boss). She is always wearing amazing shoes. She has bent over backwards to make sure I have everything I need to feel safe and comfortable. We ate at a little cafe yesterday and I learned she has her masters and works endless hours making sure her English department is content with their schedules and classloads, and she teaches a full load herself. I read her students' essays today; they were in English, two pages long on food preservation processes (food technology is the college major of this particular class). I hardly understood a word, not because the English was bad, but because I know nothing about Smoking, Fermentation, or Irradiation. Neither does Coco, but she spends hours making sure they can write about it with the proper grammar, spelling, and organization. This is the type of English I will be teaching.

My English team consists of about eleven teachers, I have met the ones who enjoy going to the local bar/restaurante around the corner from my house. They complain about the system, the lack of respect from their government, their administration, and students. Here, English is obligatory for all majors, meaning it's the class nobody wants to take. They laugh and point out the idiosyncrasies of each teacher. They teach me slang and the norms of the area and how I will notice them more as I become more accustomed to the culture.

I understand about 30% of their conversations, 50% if I concentrate really hard. But I find myself drifting into the background, watching their gestures and facial expressions, as they fight to buy the the next round. I think, wow, I'm not so far from home.

Happiness

I recently happened upon an article from the Happiness Project by way of my favorite new app Zite. The article states making sure you put things where they belong can increase your happiness.

I laughed when I read it because if this were true, I would be the most miserable person in the world. For example, I bet I spend 10 minutes a day looking for my keys. That is approximately 2.5 days a year I spend in a panic ranting like a lunatic (yes, I actually calculated it).

When I packed for Mexico, I made special care to account for everything that really mattered. My passport, my camera, battery chargers, bus ticket, favorite Christmas socks, etc. So when I realized I had left my credit AND debit card in my parents' scanner after a two-hour drive to Rockford, I was a wreck.

On the way to Rockford (prior to the meltdown), I thought about how I was going to say goodbye to my parents without crying. I was on the verge of tears when I left my sister and Olivia but managed to keep it together. I knew my parents were nervous about my living in Mexico with all its sensationalized horror stories. I knew I was scared too. Best to just throw an awkward hug and "Love ya" at them and close the door. That was my plan.

But the thought of telling my dad they may be driving an additional 6 hours just so I could afford to eat, destroyed the dam holding back my tears. He ALWAYS puts things where they belong.

So yes, being disorganized and forgetful will make you miserable.

But if I hadn't left my only access to pesos in Shullsburg, I wouldn't have be able to spend an extra 2 hours with my mom. I wouldn't have been able to see my wonderful aunt and uncle who brought the cards half way and then joined my dad for one last goodbye. I wouldn't have hugged my dad so tight and said the first true "I love you" in as long as I can remember.

So maybe putting things where they belong will bring moments of joy, but knowing am I loved makes me truly happy.

Moving forward.

I am so brave.

That's what I've been hearing anyway, when I tell people I am moving to Mexico for a year.

But I don't feel very brave. I feel a little queasy.

I am in D.C. typing my first Fulbright blog. I am here for a six-day conference to help prepare me for the crazy 12 months ahead. I think six days is not quite sufficient.

It was a cumbersome application which required many signatures and support from the school and community. My friend made me rewrite my essay about 8 times - he's relentless when it comes to wordiness and redundancy (is that redundant?). He probably is critiquing my writing abilities as he reads this. Stop it.

Today I spent the day with my fellow Fulbrighters, seven "brave" Americans and eight even braver Mexicans. We talked about cultural differences, our fears, our hopes and why we would choose to take on such a challenge.

Why would I choose to leave my family, friends, and all that is comfortable?

One of our facilitators presented a profound statement today. Americans value motion. She was right - we are always moving, looking for the bigger, better, faster way to happiness and success. I applied for the Fulbright Teacher Exchange program in October of last year; my Master's program would come to an end in the spring and I knew I would become restless standing still.

Think about the game show The Price is Right. What is always waiting behind that red curtain at the Showcase Showdown? A new car, souped-up truck, or a Caribbean cruise. Always moving. We eat fast food, like fast cars, and love texting because it's quicker than having a real conversation.

Maybe this is why people in my small community think I am brave. I am moving - much farther than your typical Darlington resident, far away, to a foreign land known for its rich history and culture, devastating poverty, tragic violence and of course, dangerously spicy food. It is scary and exciting, but I know it will make me a better teacher, opening up fantastic opportunities for my students and of course, to move forward in my career.

But then I think of my sister. Her recent loss of yet another baby has made leaving all so much harder for me. I won't be there for the difficult weeks ahead. I feel guilty.

While I love her so much, she is my exact opposite. She will live in the same house, in the same small town with her almost perfect family and, though it seems hard to imagine now, she will be happy. She is not moving anywhere - she has become a permanent fixture in a place called home. But does that mean she will never be satisfied? Even though she has been through tremendous sadness, I look at her family and am envious of the life she has chosen. Maybe after Mexico, I will have traveled far enough.

After the nurse took baby Louis from the room for the last time, my sister hugged her four-year old daughter and said, "Maybe next time."

Moving forward. Now that is brave.