El Gran Taquito

El Gran Taquito has the most delicious alambre hawaiiano in all of Puebla and is conveniently located right around the corner from my house. I haven't been there in over a week so I decide it's a great place for tonight's supper.

Rebeca remembers me and greets me by name. She sets up a table for me; it's 9:00 pm, and they are just opening.

I order my comida and begin correcting my montón de examenes, when I feel someone looking over my shoulder. I glance up and see a woman peering down at my papers. The young boy next to her says to me "Mi mamá es bien chismosa!" - My mom is very nosy!

"Ay, ¡está aprendiendo inglés!"- She is learning English! says the woman.

I laugh and reply in Spanish "De veras, I am teaching English here,"

"Es gringa," the boy says to his mom, "Can't you tell by her accent?"

And this is how I meet Rebeca's family. Her mother is from Michoacan and has light skin, which is maybe why I didn't seem as obviously "gringa" to her as I do others. Her father is one of the cooks; he is very dark-complected and lived in Lake Geneva for a while; he knows of Milwaukee, Kenosha, and Madison but has never heard of Darlington. The older brothers are the fabulous cooks making my alambre - and one, I am told, can play an amazing electric guitar.

The family leaves me alone after they bring me my food, but I see Rebeca's younger brothers whispering and laughing while sneaking peeks at me. I wave them over and tell them to join me. Marcos is about 10 years old and he introduces little brother as Enano, a nickname meaning "Dwarf". I think Marcos is teasing his little brother so I say - "Hola, Enano; Mi nombre es Gigante." He laughs and I ask, "de veras, what is your name?" He replies with a big smile, "Call me Enano - I like it!"

They ask me a million questions.

"Do you have kids?"
"No. Can I adopt you?"
"Yes," they shout.

"How old are you?"
"Old. Next question."

"Are you Catholic? Do you go to church?"
"Yes, but I don't practice."
So, they invite me to their church.

"Are there zoos where you live? How many?"
"Yes. Um, two, I think."

"What is your favorite animal?"
Cat - this is followed by a cat vs. dog argument.

"What is your favorite food?"
Alambre Hawaiiano, por supuesto - but they want to know more about McDonald's, KFC, and Pizza Hut.

"Do you know English songs?"
"Of course," I say. I start singing Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber - but they stop me because they don't really like the Biebs.

"Do you know Slash?"
"Huh?" I'm not sure I understood the question. Enano leaves for a second and brings back a Blackberry. He pulls up a YouTube video to show me. A shirtless guitarist with long frizzy hair and a top hat is playing a heavy metal version of the theme from The Godfather.
"Oh! from Guns and Roses??" By this time, I seriously want to take this kid home with me.

"Do you have queso in Wisconsin?"
"Yes, we are the Dairy State," I say, "We have tons of vacas (cows)!"
"They don't freeze to death!?"
I realized I have never really thought about what cows do in the winter. "They live in a barn with heat," I say, hoping that's correct. God, I'm a terrible Wisconsin ambassador.

"Eres racista?"
This question shocks me. "No," I say in disbelief, "Do you know racists?"

They tell me there are a lot of racists in Mexico - those with darker skin tend to be discriminated against here. Rebeca, who has joined the conversation now, says not only is it skin color, but also whether or not you have money. Then she says quietly, "People from the US son racistas; that's what I hear anyway." I tell her, yes, there are racists, but there are a lot of nice people too.

"Are your students in the US racists?" Wow. Tough question.

"Algunos, sí," I say slowly, "But it is my job to teach them we are all equal; that's why I'm here."

Mexican Names

One of the hardest parts of teaching over 100 students in a year is learning all of the names. In a new country, where the names are unfamiliar and more complicated to pronounce, it makes it all the more difficult.

In Mexico, many of my students have two first names. I had my students sign their names to the attendance sheet the first day, and when I looked it over after class, I was very discouraged. There was no way I’d learn all 125 students’ names when each student had four names. Sneakily, I had them sign up for www.edmodo.com which requires just one first name, and, of course, they put the name by which they'd want to be called. I notice that the majority of them put their first, first name, and so, I decide that must be the name they go by. But then I make the mistake of calling a student, Luis, because on the attendence sheet this is what he writes for his first, first name. “No, I don’t like that name,” he tells me,”Call me Daniel,” which I would have thought was his middle name.

Sometimes they have a nickname on top of their two given names. For example, Obdulia is Duly and Lourdes is Lulu and my friend Jesus, is Chucho. Which makes me quintuplely confused.

So, finally, I just asked a student one day to explain the naming system here.

This student, who writes Guadelupe on all of her papers, tells me usually children are named after the saint that is celebrated on their birthday, but sometimes not, if the parents decided they don’t like the saint’s name of that particular day. For example, I have about four students named Guadelupe – named after the Virgen de Guadelupe (aka María, the Mexican Virgen Mary). The second name is just

a name the parents like. The parents, and then later, the child, will choose the name they want to be called. Guadelupe, however, only has one first name.

“I was born first, and my parents didn’t like the Saint for that day, so they named me Guadelupe. Then my sister was born on el 12 de diciembre (El día de la Virgen de Guadelupe). So, her name is Guadelupe, too.”

“So what do your parents call you when you are together then?“ I ask in amazement.

"Pues, I’m called Lupe, and ella se llama Lupita."

Lupe also has two last names. Her first last name is her paternal last name, and the second comes from her mother.

If a student comes in with a name of Pablo Francisco Aguilar Montana, he could be called Pablo or Francisco depending on his or his family’s preference. His mother’s paternal last name is Montana and his father’s paternal last name is Aguilar. Got it?

This is why US schools get into cultural trouble when Hispanic children enter our school system.  We assume Francisco is the middle name (which is not necessarily true), and we would drop the Aguilar because, in the US, we put the mother’s last name (if it has survived) before the father’s. So, the student is legally registered as Pablo Montana. And now we have completely wiped out the paternal apellido, which is a huge insult to the father. Confused? Yeah, it is better just to ask the family when they come in for registration.

“So, qué pasa when you get married?” I ask.

She says, “Es diferente acá than in the states. The woman doesn’t take her husband's name here.”

I’m shocked, “En todo Mexico?” I ask.

“Sí,” she says, smiling. “I will keep my name forever. A long time ago, women would keep their last names and then add “de” plus their husband’s paternal last name. Allá, in the states, some Mexicans adapt to the culture and will do this too, but here we are equals now.” She says this proudly.

Another interesting fact is that because of the Spanish conquest of the land and more sadly, the indigenous women, there really aren’t that many different last names. If two people have the same last name, you cannot assume they are related, or that they even know each other. So, a students’ parents could legitimately have the same last name, for instance, Ana Florisel Hernandez Hernandez. And, she could easily marry Juan Carlos Hernandez Ramirez, get married in the states and become Ana Florisel Hernandez Hernandez de Hernandez!

Culture Shock?

Fulbright sent me to Washington twice before I arrived in Mexico. Both of these conferences stressed heavily the importance of being aware of culture shock. Culture shock has four phases – the honeymoon, the depression, the rebound, and the return home. Our expert speaker told us that we would be in love with our placements for approximately one month, and by October, we would find ourselves angry, annoyed, and homesick. After a minor freak-out last weekend, I realize I may have slipped into that second phase.

This tends to happen to people in general if they move to a place for a long period of time. Check out this video from a foreign exchange student who came to the US to study business.

 

School is probably the most frustrating part. I haven’t figured out how to teach all I need to teach in the precious few hours I have with students. I feel like other teachers think English class is convenient to interrupt when they need their group for an extra hour.  I have not figured out my classroom management plan for my group of macho guys who can’t sit still for five minutes. (I have them for two hours!!). Also, I miss out on the important information, like being audited next week and needing documentation in my binder. My binder sits empty on my kitchen table.  When I ask where to find this documentation, I am told it should be online, but of course, they haven’t uploaded it yet.

We finally had our induction training this past Saturday where we learned all that needs to go into our binder. I am annoyed it is a month late and that I have to spend three hours of my Saturday at school.

I complained a bit to a friend in an email and received the reflective response expected from a good counselor: it’s frustrating not knowing what you are suppose to do or who to ask for help. After reading this, I realized it wasn’t culture shock I was experiencing; I am a new teacher all over again. Just like my first year teaching in 2006, I am figuring out how to manage time and materials, encountering power struggles with students and staff, and not knowing who to trust and turn to for help.

As for the actual culture part of Mexico, I am falling in love.

Let me give you an example. Last night I attended a birthday party for a three-year old. In Catholic Mexico, turning three is big. It is the age when Mary first presented Jesus to the church, and so here, at three years old, it is custom for the parents to present their child to the church.

Coco, my boss, invited me to this celebration – she and her husband, Jesus, who everyone calls Chucho, are the girl’s godparents. She gives me a gorgeous invitation and notes the time says 4:30, but it actually begins at 5:00. ”You know how impuntuales los mexicanos are,” she says. We arrive at 5:15. The birthday girl and her family arrive at 5:30. We are hurried into the tiny church by a very annoyed “Padre,” and mass begins.

Estrella is the girl to be honored tonight, and she is dressed in a beautiful pink evening ball gown. She looks like a tiny princess. She sits quietly in front of the altar for the entire 30-minute mass. It probably would have been longer had we all shown up on time, but the next family is waiting for their own special mass outside the church doors.

Afterward, Coco, Chucho, and I go to the little girl’s party. It is held in a school, and there are tables to seat about 150 people. The banquet room has been decorated by Coco’s niece, Lily. Lily owns a party store in the Zocalo in Izucar. Decorating for parties such as these is one of Lily’s many talents. Pink and white balloons form arches and columns surrounding the dance floor; the tables have been covered in pink and white as well, each with a princess candle and princess balloons as centerpieces. The tres leches cake sits on the head table and is stacked in three fluffy white tiers, decorated in a variety of tropical fruits.  There is another large table filled with presents and gift baskets for not only the girl, but also her many guests. Lily's son, Diego, who turned five today, asks who is getting married. I don't blame him for his confusion, it looks a lot more like a wedding reception than a little kid birthday party.

Dinner is a chicken leg covered in a mole type of sauce – sweet and spicy. A side of spaghetti, garlic bread, and refried beans make for a deliciously interesting meal. And, for beverages, two liter bottles of Coke and Squirt are placed on the table, as well as a big bottle of tequila.

After dinner, the entertainment arrives. Payaso Yoyito, a very funny clown, gathers all of the children around and does a stand-up routine that even the adults enjoy, much like, Bill Cosby’s show, Kids say the Darnedest Things. Besides being hilarious, he impresses us all with his balloon sculptures – here he is on YouTube making Bugs Bunny http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Evd7pD--7iM

After the kid show, the DJ starts playing a variety of Salsa, Meringue, Bachata, and Cumbia, and the couples fill the floor. There is even a Spanish version of “My Achy Breaky Heart” in which everyone does a Latin version of the line dance – which just means they move their hips a lot more.

I meet all of Coco and Chucho’s family – both sides have been invited; Chucho’s mom and I dance the twist as Spanish versions of “Rock Around the Clock” and “Nothing but a Hound Dog” play loudly. Lily’s younger sister, who is studying to be a lawyer, loves American music (and sings it very well). She practices her English with me as she tells me of all the concerts she’s been to – Cranberries, Madonna, Guns and Roses, and Aerosmith in a few months!

They ask what I think of Mexico – and I am honest when I say I absolutely love this country. Yeah, the sidewalks could use some work, I step in dog poop a lot, and poverty is on every corner, but I love the people. Coco’s sister says it best when she shouts, “Estamos bien jodidas, pero bien felices!” which loosely translates – We may be damned, but we are happy. They are all intent on finding me a Mexican to marry so I can stay. We dance until 1:00 am when the little kids finally start passing out on lined-up folding chairs or in their parents' laps. It is one of the best evenings I have ever spent.

My induction class, by the way, wasn’t so bad, either. It lasted about two hours instead of three, and I recognized our instructor immediately as he works in one of our academic offices. He’s very attractive with big brown eyes and a nice, big smile. Today, I notice he also has strong, muscular arms and chest that fit nicely in his slightly too-tight T-shirt. He is a great teacher, involving the class in conversation; though, I keep my head down, praying I won’t have to answer any of his questions in my nervously broken Spanish. While my conversation skills have greatly improved, I still dread speaking in front of a lot of people.

I make it through and leave the class happy. Under the warm sun, I decide it is a gorgeous day for a walk. After about 15 minutes, I am sweating and decide to flag down the next combi I see.

The combi comes in about 5 minutes; I climb aboard and greet the passengers with a Buenos días. A familiar voice calls me by name, and there sits my instructor with about ten other passengers. As his stop nears, he passes up a bill to the driver, and says to me with that great smile, ‘Te pagué por tu pasaje” – he has paid my fair. I watch him exit and disappear into the crowded downtown area. Yeah, I think I could stay here for a while.

La Comida

Today is the beginning of the Independence Day Celebration, but the country's pride is much more powerful than a two day fiesta. You see it on the highways as cars painted green, white, and red zoom by; in the streets, strings of papel picado wave patriotically above you.

Children on the combi carry tiny Mexican flags and toy trumpets; little girls wear hair ribbons in the country's colors.

Venders have tons of flags, horns, hair pieces, etc in the traditional colors.

Mexico is more like a continent in that each state is like a separate country with its own specific culture of dress, music, dance, and of course, food. Puebla is famous for many traditional dishes, and if you chat with any poblano, eventually the conversation will steer right to the stomach.

When I first arrived, I was told I had to try the pozole. Pozole is a soup made with huge kernels of a special type of corn grown in Mexico. 

Courtesy of wikipedia.

You can find pozole made of pork, chicken, turkey, or chili peppers; there is a man who makes great pozole right by my apartment. The second time I ate there, he asked me "mecita o pierna." I knew pierna was leg but the mecita confused me so I stood up and got closer to hear him better. He lifted the towel covering a huge pan revealing a leg on one side and the head of the pig on the other...I ended up with shredded meat from the leg, but was thinking I should really consider vegetarianism. The soup and tacos were tasty, and the poor beheaded pig was soon forgotten. 

Pozole (with leg, not head) and dos tacos al pastor

When you open up the conversation to food, you get a rich history as a pleasant side to your meal. My landlady is making pozole tonight. She told me pozole is very famous in the south of Puebla, and the type that Izucar is most noted for is the kind that is made with pig cheeks.

Tacos, as you might have guessed, are a staple in the Mexican diet. They are not your American tacos made of ground beef with a bland Ortega sauce and shredded processed cheeses. Here, they are much smaller, wrapped in two soft corn tortillas and filled with small pieces of meat, onions, and cilantro, with lime on the side. Depending on where you buy them, yours may also include a variety of other delicious toppings. Near my house are two fabulous places for tacos; one, called  Tacos, El Amigo, offers a variety of options for meat; al pastor (pork) and de asada (beef) are your typical choices, but you can also order lengua (tongue), ojos (muscles of the eye), cachete (cheek), or sesos (brains). I was brave enough to try the tongue tacos, and I highly recommend them. I will need a few months to build up courage to try the brain tacos, but it is a personal goal I have set for myself.

Los taquitos (little tacos) from the school's cafeteria. 2 tacos = 10 pesos.

Tostadas are a lot like tacos but with a hard shell and a lot more meat; actually, a lot of food here is like a taco but with a different type of tortilla. This specific type you would eat like you would a pizza.

Tostadas al Taco, el Amigo - a delicious taco sandwich.

Quesadillas are another dish that taste nothing like the American version. They are made in a larger, soft, corn tortilla with a special stringy cheese from Oaxaca. They can be filled with a variety of vegetables or meats; I have tried quesadillas de chicharrones (pork skin), de rajas (green chilis), and de mole (see below).

Quesadilla de rajas

Quesadilla de chicharrones

Mole poblano is another traditional dish that is well-known in Puebla. Mole specifically is a complex sauce with the main ingredients of spicy chili peppers and chocolate. It usually is served over a chicken breast, but I have had it in quesadillas  and on a special blue corn tortilla as a spread. Fittingly, mole poblano was my very first meal in Mexico. I was too tired to think of taking a picture, but will the next time I have the opportunity.

From wikipedia; just doesn't do it justice. Sorry.

Another great dish I have found here is the alambre. Your plate is first covered in tortilla shells and then on top is a grilled mix of meat, cheese, veggies (or fruit) on top. There is a small restaurant by my house that specializes in this type of dish. My absolute favorite is the alambre hawaiano which is served with grilled beef, onions, pineapples, red and green chili peppers, and mushrooms. Of course, it is served with salsa verde and pico de gallo, and a plate of limes and onions. The family that runs the place knows me now as I have eaten there four times in the last week and a half. They are super sweet - Rebeca is about 14 and a great little waitress. Her brother, 8, serenaded me with a superb rendition of "La Cucaracha" on his recorder.

Alambre hawaiano

The food in Mexico is never ever boring. It will always ignite at least two of your taste receptors. Sweet and spicy, for example, are a great combination.  Chile en nogada is very famous in Puebla because of its delicious mix of spicy peppers and sweet fruits.It is made of a gigantic green poblano pepper stuffed with mixed fruits such as apples, apricots, bananas, pears, raisins, etc. The creamy sauce (la nogada) includes milk, butter, almonds, and walnuts. Finally, parsley and pomegranates are gently sprinkled on top giving it is patriotic look. This dish literally takes days to prepare; my friend, Nancy, saves up her money each week to buy the all of the ingredients and sells them in front of her house for about 60 pesos each. They are worth much, much more than this.

The poblanos here are very proud of their Chilis en nogadas. In the early 1800s, as the Mexicans were fighting for their Independence, a heroic general passed through Puebla on his way to Veracruz. To honor him, a convent of nuns prepared this special dish for him before he continued on. When he arrived in Veracruz, General Agostín de Iturbide defeated the Spanish, and Mexico finally received its independence. Iturbide is also said to have designed the first Mexican flag, a tribute to the nuns' gift, perhaps? 

From www.inside-mexico.com

A year later, Iturbide declared himself Mexico's first emperor. Alas, he was a poor leader and exiled after losing all of Central America to their own Independence in 1823. Agostín was the first of many bad rulers; it is a reoccurring story in Mexican history.

What is great about food here is it molds relationships. My favorite guy on campus is, por supuesto, the cook at one of the school's two cafeterias. Manolo loves to tease me and throw in English words as he fires rapid Spanish at me. He slaps my hand as I try to squeeze a lime on one of his famous tacos - así es perfecto - it is perfect as it is, he says. I sat at his taco stand for an hour trying all of his favorite dishes until I finally say, "¡No puedo más, Manolo!¨ as I reach for my pesos. He waves his hand; my money is no good at his taquería. 

Manolo's half smile as he shouts "Whiskey!"

I do crave normal American food once in awhile. When I really miss Subway and the Towne House, I am at the Italian Coffee Café. They've got great paninos with spicy peppers, mushrooms, delicious cheese, soft tasty bread, tons of coffee, and free Internet. I come here on the weekends to write my blogs, correct my papers, and speak English with my one American friend I met here three weeks ago. It isn't exactly authentic, but the Oreo frappes are so flippin' great.

Now that I've picked out the best places to eat, I should probably look for a gym...

**Thank you, Nancy, for the great history of the Chili en nogada!

Cultural Faux Pas

I'm not going to lie; I am a horrible English teacher.

English as a second language (ESL) is way more difficult than teaching Spanish because I speak it without thinking. I have no idea how to teach when you should use "the" and when not.  I have no idea how to explain "it." "It" is cold. "It" is important. What is "it" anyway?

Today, I tried to fix the common error of a run-on sentence; I tell them commas are just not strong enough to separate sentences; you must use a period.  They haven't a clue what is coming out of my mouth, but know it must have something to do with a very awkward body-builder. At least I'm entertaining.

For the most part my classes are well-behaved, but I have a few students who get up and leave class whenever they want; they have a montón de excuses for missing class, and I cannot remember who is who, who needs what homework, and who will be absent on what day. I threaten to take points away, in Spanish, to make sure they understand, and wind up getting a lecture on the words "sacar" and "quitar." Apparently I used the wrong verb.

I gave a quiz this week; for the majority of the classes, I didn't even say anything as I noticed eyes wondering to their neighbors' papers. I'd cheat too if I were my teacher.

But I adjust my lessons, review better, and offer conversation classes where I can teach how I want and what I want. I use my poor Spanish to show them they shouldn't worry about their errors so much when speaking - it is possible to make mistakes and still communicate what you want to say.

I still remind myself everyday how lucky I am to be living in Mexico. But the honeymoon phasing out into culture shock.

The paperwork is killing me. I am drowning in writing that needs to be corrected. My email inbox is full, my edmodo website is screaming, read me, read me! I sit sola at the taco joint next to my house every night and correct papers along side my Coronita con limón. Coke with lime keeps my stomach healthy, and Corona, my mind.

Comida Típica de México. Dos Tostadas de bistec, Corona con sal y limón y un montón de papeles.

Last night as I attempted to tackle one more class of quizzes (they are so much easier to grade than essays), my boss, Coco, called to invite me out with some of our coworkers. She makes sure to call me anytime she is out with friends; I know she is worried about me.  I never turn down her invitations because I see them as the cultural opportunities I missed out on because I was grading papers. I show up at a restaurant and find the two Coco's (my personal Izucar tour guides), and two other women I recognize from my departmental meetings. Coco tells me they think I'm too serious. I'm pretty sure she means rude.

In Mexico, personal connections are far more important than the things you accomplish. You see it in the streets, the cafes; no one is in a hurry, and no one is ever alone. They sit in the city center (el Zocalo) and chat with family members; they discuss passionately over cups of cafés americanos in the local coffeeshop, literally fighting with their gestures to get their two cents in. Interruptions are welcome and expected.

You see it in the daily greetings. The custom for a woman is to shake the right hand of the other, lean in, touching cheeks with a slight kiss. Two men, however, will shake hands with their right and pat their companion's back with their left; if they are really close, they'll perform a secret handshake. Small talk is also expected in this interaction.

However, I find myself avoiding these confrontations. My Spanish is blunt and to the point - small talk is extremely hard for me; especially if I'm not sure I understand the questions they are asking. I have yet to master the bilingual mind, switching my brain from English to Spanish in a split second. It's normal for me to walk into class speaking Spanish when I should be using English and then afterward, ask the secretary for assistance in English and watch as her face crumple in confusion. I also am thinking two hours ahead, of all I need to accomplish today, and often times, I miss eye contact with fellow coworkers who expect the typical Mexican greeting. And to be honest, I feel incredibly superficial when I do partake in the ritual because I usually can't even remember the other person's name. I don't know if Asperger's can magically manifest when you cross cultures, but I'm pretty sure I scream socially inept.

After a few drinks and some delicious chicharrones (the rice cake type, not the actual pig skin kind) with chili sauce, I am comfortable with the small talk; Betty lives in Puebla and commutes an hour everyday. She is the school psychologist  and speaks fantastic Mexican slang. The other has long, gorgeous black hair, is single, and very outspoken - she is afraid she has offended me with her sexual innuendos and jokes. I think she is hilarious. We sing, we dance, and my new friends finally drive me home at three in the morning.

I see Betty today before my first class; her yawn is contagious and we both laugh at how awful we feel. I lean in, put my cheek to hers and give her a soft hug. And I mean it.

UTIM

View from UTIM - Volcán Popocateptl; photo taken by a student at UTIM

The Universidad Tecnológica de Izucar de Matamoros is located on the edge of Matamoros on gravel road, opposite from a field of sugar cane. If you are lucky, the clouds will part for a short while, and you can see the majestic Volcán Popocatépetl. I have been trying futilely to take a picture for the past two weeks and finally decided to steal this photo from facebook.

The University has two academic buildings where classes are held, a small library and information center, a greenhouse, laboratories for food technology and other science classes, and two cafeterias, which are more like outdoor pavilions in paradise, serving a wide variety of Mexican food, and of course, Coca Colas.

There is a gym for indoor basketball; it does not have air conditioning. Instead the doors and windows are wide open and birds have nested in the rafters. A dirt track circles a large soccer field, and there are two basketball hoops on the large cement block in the center of campus. I ask why there is an enormous yellow circle painted on this cement block, thinking it must be a sport with which I am unfamiliar. I am told it is where everyone goes in the event of an earthquake. They occur about every 4-5 years, and the last one in this region was in 2004. I thought about that fact as I was walking to the supermarket the other day, powerlines on both sides of the sidewalk...

My first day of class was Monday. I checked out a "Cañon" (a Canon-brand projector) from the Finance Department and arrived to my classroom early in order to set up.

It is like an American tech school or university where the professor must change classrooms for each group of students. That means on Monday, I am in Aula 6 for my first class, Aula 8 the second, and Aula 7 for the final class of the day. I carry a bag of goodies: toilet paper for a discussion game, cards for grouping, paperclips, folders, dry erase markers, etc. I also have my computer, iPad, video camera, my Antología (binder with all of my papers), and a small alarm clock to make sure I stay on time. My computer bag is from Walmart and ergonomic, it is not. I need to find a good masseuse.

Students are grouped by career (major) and section. They are with the same classmates all through college. Each day they come to one room to learn, and it is the professor who changes classrooms. My first class begins at 3:00 pm and ends at 4:00 pm, my next class begins at 4:00 pm and ends at 6:00 pm, and finally, my last class is from 6:00 pm until 8:00 pm. There is no passing time between classes, and this should make sense, but I haven't yet adapted to the complete obliviousness of time in Mexico.

Of course, I arrive fifteen minutes early for class to set up. But alas, the professor before me must have forgotten his watch because it is now 3:05, and I am still waiting to get into my classroom. At 3:06, I begin to set up and am ready to go by 3:10. The classes go smoothly, and I know it will be a good year.

I have approximately a month of two 2-hour sessions with my students each week to get through three units of writing. I am told to just do my best by the other English teachers because they know that this is nearly impossible. I know that if I prepare enough, I will be able to squeeze plenty of information into those precious four hours per week.

But, today is my one hour class. The "Cañon" I signed out yesterday is MIA, and I will be improvising my presentation today. The profe before me has forgotten his watch again, and I start writing my tech-savy PowerPoint on the tech-challenged whiteboard at 3:10. Four students rush in to get my attention, "Teacher, Teacher," they say. Titles are very important here - this is a sign of respect. The students tell me they will not be in class next week. "Teacher, Teacher," two more students need homework from Monday; they were not able to come the first day. This beginning-of-class chaos is actually pretty normal in Darlington too; I have realized students are students no matter where you are teaching. It is now 3:25.

I begin class; we start with a simple grammar review, and as I am explaining the word "brothers" is different than "siblings,", there is a knock at the door. Three tardy students ask permission to enter...again, as a sign of respect for the teacher. Another knock... Two students would like to survey my class for one of their assignments. I politely say no; I now have only 25 minutes to give an hour lesson...Another knock at the door. A professor needs to talk to a student. Knock Knock... Four more students, carrying plastic baggies of coins, explain a fellow classmate's mother, who has had a recent operation, cannot afford the costs. They would like a moment to ask my class if they can help. I say, "por supuesto" and go find some loose pesos while they give their spiel.

So, I have decided to plan only 20 minutes a day for each hour I teach. I have my bag of tricks and a guitar arriving soon if I should have any unexpected time left over.  I will also be purchasing my own "Cañon" from a tech guy I met at my favorite taco joint, and about half of my students have already signed up for my online learning platform where they can find materials and lessons I just couldn't fit in.

I will get through my curriculum, and students will learn. Tranquila.