La isla de las muñecas (The Island of the Dolls)

In November, I had a chance to tour the Palacio Nacional in the historic center of Mexico City. This is the home of many gorgeous murals of Diego Rivera - Mexico's most famous muralist.

Palacio Nacional en México D.F.

An amazing mural by Diego Rivera that tells the history of México from the indigenous people's point of view.

The canals of Mexico city.

http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx

One of our fulbrighters was knowledgeable in the murals, explaining that the small islands that appear amongst the system of canals were used as fertile agricultural plots during the time of the Xochimilca (a tribe of the Nahua - aka Aztecs) in 900s.  Xochilmico means flower fields, but the islands, known as chinampas, were used to grow corn, squash, beans, chili peppers and much more. I put Xochimilco on my mental Mexico bucket list, knowing I had to see this magical place before I left Mexico.

It was about six months later, I found my opportunity. Another fulbrighter, Jonathan, who was placed in a public middle school in the massive city, happily obliged to be my tour guide.  His roommate, a Chinese American who works for the US Embassy in Mexico, is hosting a bachelor party for a friend on the canals of Xochimilco (so-chee-MIL-co), so we head to the canals with about 12 Americans, and a few British embassadors as well. 

We hop in a large gondola-type boat called a "trajinera" and start our two-hour journey. Luckily, we arrive early enough that the canals aren't filled with too many families enjoying their Saturday afternoon. But there are plenty of smaller boats carrying merchants selling jewelry, mariachi bands playing "Cielito Lindo", and lots of chabelas (poor man's bloody Mary) and tacos to help you stay nourished during the trip.

On our journey, we pass a tree with four or five decaying dolls hanging grotesquely from the tree. Apparently, it's a preview to an island located 2 hours away. Jonathan's friend tells me the story of the Island of the Dolls.

In the 1950s, a small girl was playing in the canals off of one of the many chinampas. Somehow, the water overtook her and she drowned. The island's only inhabitant, Don Julian Santana, found her body, deeply affecting him. He was haunted by her spirit, engulfed in sadness for the poor girl, and so he began to collect and hang dolls from the trees of the island, both as gifts for the girl and also to protect his home against any additional evil. 

Our tour would not be taking us to this crazy island but I knew I would be returning soon.

About a month later, a fulbrighter who is about to end her fulbright experience, asks me to join her for one last trip to Mexico City. Of course I tell her of the island of the dolls.

We meet at "our" hotel the Holiday Inn Zona Rosa where we always stay on these reunions and head downtown via the metro. The Mexican Subway system is an adventure in itself - venders and beggars, selling everything from gum to a really bad rendition of Cielito Lindo.  But it's relatively easy, quick and super cheap. We maneuver our way to a Diego Rivera and Frida Kahloa museum to soak up some Mexican culture before we take our haunted journey to the island of the dolls. 

Then, we find a cab who takes us through the winding streets of Xochimilco. Our driver is led by an official tour guide on a bike who makes sure the tourists make it to the docks. We pick a boat and head out into the canals.

Where we are going, there are no mariachis, or nice señoritas selling food or drinks - so before we are hoisted over the dam, we wave over a young couple and ask for two chabelas, (clamato-tomato juice, tajin-chili/lemon pepper, salsa inglesa-Worcestershire and Valentino-spicy chili sauce) and of course, Victoria beer.

Our journey to the island is about 2 hours, but the time flies as we catch up on our last few weeks of teaching in Mexico. Our experiences are pretty similar, bouts of loneliness, frustrations with the bureaucracy and constant class interruptions, great students, and a few fabulous friends who have made our year worthwhile. Suddenly, we realize there are creepy dolls hanging all around us. We've reached the island.

We meet Anastasio Santana Velasco, the nephew of Don Julian, who has taken over the island. He leads us across a bridge to a small shed. Broken, tattered dolls hang from every tree, fence post, and from the shed as well. Entering the shed, we find a "Día de los muertos"-like alter, created by Don Julian in honor of the little girl who drowned. In the center is Don Julian's favorite doll - she is bigger than most of the other dolls, with long blond hair, and cold blue eyes. There is a bowl filled with small change, an offering for both Don Julian and the little girl.

Anastasio asks if we understand Spanish; we nod and he breathes in a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, there is no translator for the non-Spanish-speaking tourist. He tells us the sad story of the niña and her untimely death, and the obsession that haunted his uncle for fifty years after the accident - up until his own death, in fact. Don Julian died in the same spot as the little girl, 50 years later. Many claim he drowned too, but his nephew insists it was a heart attack.  Now Anastasio runs the place seven days a week, hardly sleeping due to the frequent night tourists as well. 

We are only on the island for 20 minutes. It's tiny, and we walk through the three small shacks and the tall trees quickly. Everything is covered in dolls. As we leave, we pass Don Anastasio and his family sitting around a rundown cabaña type bar. Two boys about 7 or 8 years-old play in a boat in the canal. Don Anastasio invites me to a shot of tequila. "Salud!" I say, and we head back to our trajinera.

La basura

I don't like to complain on my blog because I know my issues are petty compared to the people who actually live here and deal with much bigger problems (poor wages, corruption, crime, etc). But I do want to share some of the idiosyncrasies of this great country that some days make me laugh and other days want to scream obscenities from my window.

Many services here are not found in stores but rather in trucks rolling down the street, announcing their presence with loud piercing speakers. For example, the gas guy has a catchy tune that I like to sing along to every morning. The song reminds me of the Muppet Show theme song, and is followed by a long drawn out "Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhsssss" that swoops up melodically at the end. When you no longer have hot water, you simply wait for the tune, flag down the driver, and the guy hauls the tank of gas up to your apartment on the third floor.

Some nice fellow on YouTube managed to capture it; listen to this everyday for 3 months in a row and you'll be singing along too...

The bread truck is my absolute favorite, though, and makes me giggle every time I hear his catchy tune.

So, why then, can't the trash guy have a cool jingle to announce his arrival? 

In Izucar, there are no dumpsters to put your trash in and no bins outside the buildings. If you really want to tick off your neighbors, you can leave the bags out for the stray dogs to rip apart, but nobody wants to be "that guy" in the apartment. So you have to listen for a rusted tinny bell that a guy clangs down the street about 3 minutes before the truck actually passes. Then, you and your neighbors scurry to collect all your bags, run down three flights of stairs and then stand in line to hand your collection to the garbage man who throws it in the truck. 

The first time I heard the bell, I was also waiting for the señorita that does my laundry. I dropped my bag of clothes in the hall, scrambled up the 32 stairs, grabbed my two large bags of trash, ran back down the stairs, just in time to see my neighbor look at my laundry bag of two-weeks-worth of clothes as if he were going to throw it in the trash!! 

I don't have a lot of trash; I don't cook and so, therefore, it is mostly just a few take-out boxes. Oh, and have I mentioned I can't flush toilet paper?? (Sorry if that was too much info, but I feel you need to know the small details before you decide you should move here too). 

It would just be nice to not have to have one ear out the window each morning (and afternoon) when I become paranoid that my mini cockroaches will tell their bigger friends that I have plenty of goodies to offer them.  No one in my neighborhood seems to know when and what day the garbage truck will pass; the first time, it was a Thursday at 11:00 am, and the last time was a Wednesday at 1:30 pm.  I could barely hear the bell over the noise of la calle (street). Luckily, my building super yelled "BASURA, BASURA!!" and I was finally able to take out my 3 weeks of trash I had accumulated.

So there it is. I write about how much I love living in this beautiful country, but truthfully, sometimes Mexico stinks.

Día de los Muertos

It was impossible to catch a combi this past week. Starting October 26^th, my usual route was blocked by a marketplace specifically set up for the Day of the Dead. This market stretched almost 5 blocks, crowding the streets with sugar skulls, catrinas and calaveras, miniature ofrendas, and brilliantly gold and purple cempasuchil (very large marigolds). You also have your hojaldras (delicious bread served only this time of year), fruits, candles of all colors and sizes, and I even found some chapulines to share with my students. Surprisingly, many of them were grossed out by the fact I enjoyed eating the crunchy, little critters.

Catrina in the plaza of Izucar

My very own Catrina bought at the market.

Little mini ofrenda bought in the market.

Sugar skulls

Scary skull in the plaza

This special market takes place to prepare for a most amazing holiday, Día de los Muertos. Because I am a Spanish teacher, I had a little background on this famous celebration. It is a ritual that dates back before the Spanish Conquest. Therefore, you see many pagan traditions passed on from the indigenous Aztec culture sweetly blended into the Catholic customs complete with crosses, La Virgen and Jesus Cristo.

Families can buy their food, flowers, and adornos to decorate their ofrendas – usually a 3-tiered display symbolizing the life of a recently deceased love one and the faith of the family. My students tell me if I am going to spend Día de los Muertos in the state of Puebla, I have to visit the town of Huaquechula, which is about 30 minutes from Izucar. A quiet girl speaks up; Huaquechula has become very touristy and if I really want a traditional experience, I should visit her town, Cacaloxuchitl which is only 5 minutes from Huaquechula. I tell Coco this, and Nov. 1^st, la familia and I pack up and take off for a Día de los Muertos adventure.

We arrive in Cacaloxuchitl at 5:00 with empty stomachs. I was told to not eat anything beforehand because we would eat about a week’s worth when we arrived. I am hungry.  As we enter the town we are greeted by a “trick or treater”, a boy about 11 years old, in an ugly monster mask with a bucket. Jorge, our driver, gives him a few pesos. We continue on and realize we have no idea where we are suppose to go. Jorge yells out the window at a few boys standing on the corner. “Dónde están las ofrendas?” he asks – Where can we find the ofrendas? The boys respond with “Hay un chingó allá” pointing down the street. We laugh at the phrase – it’s kind of like saying “There’s a sh*tload down the street!” to perfect strangers.  Jorge tells me this is typical banter of small villages such as this.

However, the vulgar-mouthed boys guided us perfectly – we begin seeing trails of marigold petals, beginning in a cross in the street and then leading visitors (and the deceased loved ones) into various houses. We follow the first orange path into a rustic yard – tables and chairs have been set up, dogs and turkeys walk freely around, taking part in the festivities as well. I almost trip as I try to avoid stepping on a baby chic. The dueña de la casa invites us to follow her. Her hair is pulled back in a long graying braid; she is probably in her seventies.

She takes us into a very simple room with cement walls and floor; on one side of the room chairs are lined up for visitors and on the other, a magnificent altar stands in memory of both her daughter and her grandson. I learn that these types of altars are created for those who have died in the past year. Her grandson passed away in March of this year, and her daughter two months later. Los poblanos believe the spirits of their loved ones are in limbo in this year, still between earth and heaven; the altars are designed to guide them back to their home one last time, which explains the trail of marigolds.

Combining indigenous and Catholic traditions, altars are made of three levels. Each level is decorated with flowers and delicately cut papel picado. The first level represents “earth,” and traditional food and drink that the deceased enjoyed are placed to tempt the loved ones to return and enjoy. Tamales, hojaldras, pipían, mole, and various fruits cover this first level, in addition to cigarettes (if the person smoked), and tequila, mezcal, and/or Mexican cerveza.

papel picado

The second level of the altar represents the magical place between earth and heaven and is decorated in brilliant flowers, candles, and a 10’’ x 7’’ picture of the loved one. Many of the photographs that we saw were photo-shopped so that the person appeared to be walking in a garden, with a beam of light on them as if guiding them to heaven. On some, statues of crying angels stood guarding the photo.

The third level represents heaven, and there is usually a religious painting of La Virgin, a statue of Jesus Cristo, or a cross.

Along with marigolds, incense and candles stand at the base of the altar, lighting the path for the deceased.

Each major at UTIM builds elaborate altars honoring a Mexican hero

A montón of marigolds.

What is an ofrenda?

We pay our respects to the woman’s family. Coco makes “a sign of the cross” and kisses her thumb as she finishes the gesture. The señora leads us back into the patio and tells us to enjoy some of the wonderful food they have prepared. All of the women in the family are working hard; some making tortillas over an open fire, two are stirring enormous pots of mole and the others are busy preparing tamales for the visitors.

Café - with sugar and a lot of caffeine.

Making tamales

Bowls of mole poblano are brought to our tables, also, aguas made from sweet fruits, and of course, warm tortillas. We eat, give our thanks and continue on to the next casa.

In this small town, thirty-six altars were created this year – thirty–six loved ones passed away in just this past year.  We visit two more, an older man in his seventies who is mourning the loss of yet another son, and another family remembering their sweet abuelita (grandmother). We eat pipían – a green mole sauce made from pumpkin seeds over a chicken leg - and tamales wrapped in cornhusks. I am so full, but the family tells me it is a “grosería” (insult) to refuse to eat. So I eat another tamal.

En memoria de un hijo (son).

Altar in memory of an abuelita (grandmother).

These families are very poor, yet immediately after someone in the family has died, they begin saving their money to prepare for these altars and the grand feast. They could spend up to 30,000 pesos (about $3000), inviting complete strangers to meet and pay respects to their loved ones. These people believe the dead truly return – Lily tells me stories she has heard, food disappearing, candles flickering strangely. Superstition is as strong as the Catholic faith here.

Afterwards we travel to Huaquechula where there is a huge festival, with traditional Mexican folk dances, rides and games for children, and a market place selling a variety of Día de los Muertos souvenirs. The altars here are famous around the world I find out as I run into five Americans also taking in the spectacular tradition.

Altars in Huaquechula cost thousands of dollars to build.

Ballet Folklórico en Huaquechula

We take an alternative route home and decide to visit one more town with altars. A woman guides us into a small room with an altar dedicated to her husband. Her eyes are red; I can tell she has been crying. I read the sign by his photo – August 27, 2011.  This is a week after I arrived in Mexico, which seems like only yesterday.

The last altar we visit is a family celebrating the life of their grandmother. They are happy and pass around a bottle of tequila. They offer us candied pumpkin and atole – which is a sweet rice pudding-like substance. I thought I couldn’t eat anymore but I ended up enjoying THREE cups of this amazing stuff!

The next day Coco’s family invites me to the November 2nd Día de los Muertos tradition in Izucar’s panteón (cemetery). On this day, the tradition continues, taking the flowers, food, and candles from the altar to the graves of the loved ones. Doña Juanita (Coco’s mother) carries a large bouquet of cempezuchitl and a small, torn prayer book. Coco and her sister carry 2 large candles.

When we get to the cemetery, I am shocked at the amount of people. The place is packed with families, eating and even drinking Modelo around the gravesites. The afternoon sun is powerful; everyone carries umbrellas, and venders sell popcicles and ice cream in the paths between the tombs. Some family members have hired Mariachi bands to play for their relatives. The tradition of Coco’s family is much more simple and sweet. We visit five tombs, Doña Juanita leads us in prayers of the rosary, and we end in a joyous song, which Diego sings at the top of his lungs.

As a Spanish teacher, I thought I knew a lot about the Mexican culture, and particularly about Día de los Muertos. But after experiencing the kindness, generosity, and faith of these people, I realize I have a lot more to learn.

La vida después de 30.

Turning 30 was not something I was looking forward to. Last year, on October 24th, I was a mess. I cried a lot. I put myself together for my fabulous friends who were waiting for me at my party, but brought along my Visine red-eye drops just in case (I only had one breakdown, but no one noticed).

In your twenties, you have a lot of freedom to live single and carelessly, without worrying about your future. I realized on that day, that I had let 10 years pass me by. In my career, I felt like finally it was all falling into place, but in life, I hadn't grown up yet. There I was, still renting a tiny apartment, no husband, or even a potential prospect, no children, and still in the same small county I grew up in. It took way more miles to run off a second piece a pizza, and I had to start using eye cream.  I hadn't been on a date in over a year, and the single men my age were getting engaged or dating girls a lot younger than me. How had life passed me by so quickly, and when did I become so insecure?

My 31st birthday treated me a lot better than 30. I walked into my classroom on Monday with a bag of treats and of course, lots of English practice for my students. After the first small activity, a student tells me my boss needs to see me upstairs. Before I go, I spend five minutes getting the students started on their second assignment so they can work while I'm gone; I can't stand one minute of learning wasted. The student escorts me upstairs, which I think is weird, but it's not my country so I just stand and wait with him. After about five minutes of waiting (this is a LONG time for me when I suppose to be teaching a class), my student sees me checking the time and says,  "I am bad, I lied. We just need a little more time."

I give him a puzzled look and he laughs; we go back downstairs and a few more students are waiting outside of the classroom with a blindfold. They tie it around my eyes and guide me into the classroom. When I take off the blindfold, the room is set up for a party with a gorgeous chocolate mousse pastel and refrescos. The students sing about four verses of their birthday song "Las Mañanitas", which is much more complicated than "Happy Birthday." They all start chanting "Mordida" which is my signal to dive face first into the cake taking the first bite. Of course a student behind me smashes my face into the frosting. I cut the rest of the cake that doesn't have my nose print, and we play music and dance the rest of the hour. I learn that male students are much more willing to dance than female students; one shows me how to duranguese, another student teaches me the bachata, and another cumbia. I teach them how to line dance.

The next class has planned a similar party but has decorated the room in balloons and throws confetti at me. Their cake is a delicious tres leches topped with kiwi and strawberries. I make all students stand in front of me while I take my mordida. I know these students work hard for every peso they have, and to spend so much time and money on me to make me feel special this day literally brought tears to my eyes. 

Afterwards, Coco, her husband and the rest of the family had planned a similar party - I don't even fight it when Chucho pushes my face in the delicious chocolate cake they have prepared for me.

If you are wondering, thirty actually turned out to be a pretty good year. I spent it with a wonderful group of friends and family in little Lafayette County; I earned a master's degree, saw Jimmy Buffet, and was chosen to participate in an amazing teacher exchange program. Mexico, while it has its challenges, is giving me time to figure out who I want to be. I want to be a great daughter, sister, friend, and teacher. The rest I will leave to fate; it's treated me well so far.

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.