Blog post 82: where I become increasingly more “Espanish”

There are subtle signs that tell you that you’ve become too familiar with the Spanish language.

First you start confusing the letters “b” and “v” when typing on your keyboard, because, you know, they are pronounced the same way in Spanish.

Then you’ll notice (again, when typing) that all your double vowels have disappeared and been replaced with more comfortable single vowels. No more “aktiveerimine”, hello to “aktiverimine”.

The third point, however, takes the prize. You talk to your non-Spanish speaking friends and suddenly notice a confused look on their faces.

“What’s the matter?” you ask.

“Well, I didn’t understand half of what you were saying,” your friends say.

You trace back in your recent sentences and blush with embarrassement. Without any conscious will of your own Spanish words have slipped into your conversation, and this after you had sworn to yourself that you’d be more careful next time and try to avoid this. So you apologize to your friends and make a mental note (again) to speak only in ONE language at a time.

You can guess three times, if you can keep this promise.

Blog post 81: where I still like the color purple

I’m anything but inconsistent when it comes to liking purple/lilac flowers. I can’t help it. There are just so many beautiful flowers of that particular color and they all grow around me!

Like this one, for example:

Yes, I know it looks very suspiciously like a potato flower, but I assure you, it’s not.

Another fine example of a purple flower is this:

So fragile, so shy, so simple. I love this flower.

I also like this flower, but for other reasons:

OK, so this is more blue than purple, but look at it – it’s strong, confident, so proud a flower. I swear, if I had a little more humidity in the place where I live, my house would be surrounded with these bush-like flowers.

Ok, THIS one looks much more like a potato flower:

I was tempted to dig it up to check for tubers, but since I only had this to help with the digging

I decided to take a picture of it instead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog post 80: where I take photos of dogs

Our family dog died a month ago. It was an unfair train vs dog confrontation and the dog lost. Needless to say that that it shook us hard.

As a tribute to him and all the other dogs that have suffered an untimely death, here’s a little photo compilation of some of the dogs I could get to pose for my camera.

Here’s our Junior, having a siesta:

And here are some other dogs.

I wonder, where’s the best place to sleep for a dog? Yep, in the talacheria (because it’s so nice and quiet there)

or, perhaps in the place where they make pallets? (also very quiet there, obviously)

There’s no sleep to be had when you’re taking up guard on the ambulante market.

or when you’re greeting people at the church door

The most fun to be had is definitely at the playground

or pretending that a cat can (temporarily, of course) take over the house

There’s one place though, where you don’t want to end up – under the bridge, not even a plastic bag to cover you

It’s much better to make new, slightly odd friends in the park

Puhka rahus, Junior!

Blog post 79: where children have children

I remember when I read Isabel Allende’s “Daughter of Fortune”. It was in English and I devoured it in a week, reading into the wee hours of the morning. In the book there was a passage where one of the main characters is sold to a stranger. The character was still a boy, but had seen this practice often enough not to be surprised at his parents’ decision.

Then I remembered an old movie I had seen  – “Good Earth”, where the same thing happened to the main character, a girl this time. Both, the book and the movie (which is also based on a book, and I WILL read it some day) dealt with the Chinese community and their traditions and I took it as such. By that time I had familiarized myself with the child-selling customs of Asian countries and it didn’t shock me much. Maybe it should have.

Why am I writing this? Because a few days ago, I saw a girl. She lives on our street, she and her father. I always assumed that she was eighteen, or nineteen, but it’s not so. She’s sixteen. And she is about  five months pregnant with her second child. She had her first when she was fourteen or fifteen. What did she do with the first baby? Gave it away, to her then-boyfriend’s parents. What will she do with her second child? My sad guess is that she will give it away as well. And this is not the saddest part of this post.

This is. She’s not the only one who has done it. There are a few young women living in our neighbourhood, who have their children scattered all over the municipio, women who consider IVU an unneccesary luxury and men who think condoms make funny water balloons.

So I started thinking. What is worse, to sell your child to save your other family members from starving, etc, or just give the child away? Necessity vs indifference.

I’m not a preacher sitting on my high chair and I definitely don’t lecture about morals, but it makes me want to take these girls into a sex education class. Not every intercourse has to end with pregnancy. Not every relationship is meant to evolve into family and parenthood. Though a catholic country, Mexico has all the means necessary to avoid unplanned pregnancies – condoms, creams, IVUs, day-after pills, hormonal birth-control pills, etc. One simply has to walk into a pharmacy and ask for them.

I don’t know what will happen to that pregnant girl. Will she be pregnant again next year? And the next? Will she keep any of her children? Will she care that at least one of her children grows up without her, or is it just a pest of a thought to her? I don’t know where her mother is, is she herself is an abandoned child, or is she doing it because she doesn’t know better. I try to be optimistic and wish her best, in whatever form it comes, because the worse is worse than the worse.

Blog Post 78: where water is hardly a scarse commodity

I was brought up in a temperate climate, which means that I got to experience the joys and woes of all four seasons. It was relatively tolerable – the endless rain, the thermometers that didn’t  acknowledge temperatures over 20 degrees Celsius for most of the year, the slippery, bone-breaking ice and the year-long reign of respiratory diseases. Yep, it was quite tolerable, until I traveled to Mexico. Now I am the child of the sun and never plan to go back to the northern latitudes, which means that I have to live by the sun.

The sun here in Mexico is a cruel master, bending the nature and the people to its will. You want to sunbathe? Sure, just make sure you have the  bloqueadaor nearby, preferably the one that has number 50 or 70 printed on the tube in huge font size. You want to go out and take a walk in the park? Sure, just remember to cover your head and your shoulders and your legs, especially if you happen to have a sensitive skin. You want to drive across the city to the primera comunión of your young relative? Sure, but please, check if the car has air conditioning, or that you have packed you fan with you. (You’ll be waving it frantically at every stop you make on the way.)

The best relief against sun? Water, of course. You gulp it down, you pour it over your face, you take two showers a day, you wash your store and the street in front of your store, you wash your car, your clothes, your dog… Wait, don’t we live in a desert?

It’s amazing how much water Mexicans utilize every day. Wherever I go, whenever I go, I always see somebody doing something with the water. Usually it’s scrubbing the street with a sharp-smelling disinfectant until the concrete pavement is polished so fine you can eat from it. On the one hand, I understand it. In a hot climate, one tries to be as clean and bacteria-free as possible to avoid infections. On the other hand, it’s an awful waste. Add to this my practical, environmentally conscious northern mind and you get a somewhat ironical situation that I’m in. My mind tells me not to waste water, to save it and to teach my kids to appreciate this wonderful resource. On the other hand, I can’t go around growing fungi on my back.

For some reason (and I shudder when I write it), many Mexicans seem to think that they have an unlimited stock of water, that it would never end, that it’s OK to have a leak in the tubes that will remain unrepaired for weeks and weeks, that the stories of water shortage are some sort of government conspiracy to get some poor, gullible suckers cough up money for the water bills. There’s enough water! See, there it is, a nice, strong stream flowing in the street. How can you say we don’t have water? Besides, summer is almost here and then we’ll have more water than we can handle. Remember the floods in Veracruz a few years back? Chiapas? Tabasco? We have water, oh sure we do.

No, we don’t. We’re wasting the water of our grandchildren, spending it on ignorance and indifference. Let’s hope the people living in Central and Northern Mexico will realize it soon, since they’re the first to be affected by the lack of aqua vitae.

 

Blog post 77: where punctuality is not a virtue

If there is something that holds true for Mexicans and Mexican lifestyle, it’s their tardiness. When I was working as a teacher, it was brought up at every weekly meeting.

“Thou shalt not be late for your classes!” the supervisors commanded.

“I will not be late for my classes,” I repeated. And in most times, I wasn’t, except for some freak power failures, when I had to wait 5-15 minutes in a subway train, in the dark, pressed against sweating bodies of other unfortunate employees late for their work. I always apologised for not being on time, as I don’t control the electricity system here, and my apologies were accepted. It felt like was back in Europe, where everybody was punctual and you had to have a very good excuse for being late.

Now, being late for a family event is a different thing. I know the following will sound like an exaggerated anecdote, but it really happened exactly like this.

Our relatives live not so very far from us in the city, like 25 miles or so. It’s a trip that lasts 1,5 – 2 hours, depending on the traffic. So one Friday evening my husband told me in the most nonchalant way,

“We’re going to see my uncle tomorrow. We should leave around midday.”

“So I should get the girls ready by noon? Are you sure?”

“Yes, noon. We’ll leave at noon.”

I must say, my previous experience with visits like this had made me a tad doubtful. The next day my husband woke up around 11 to take a shower. I got my two kids and myself fed, dressed and hair-styled by noon exactly and went downstairs.

“Are we leaving?” I asked my husband, looking around in the downstairs living room that was a mess of drying towels, freshly washed clothes, breakfast leftovers and a family that was sluggishly moving around, concentrating more on yelling each other in a friendly way than getting ready.

“No, not yet.,” my husband said. “My sister is still bathing her children. Maybe we can leave in an hour.”

I went upstairs and kept myself busy for an hour. Then I went downstairs again. The first thing I heard, before I saw it, was a football match on TV.

“So we’re not leaving yet,” I said.

“No, we’ll watch the game. It’ll end by 2.”

I stomped my way back upstairs, fed the kids again, tried to keep the little one awake. At 2 p.m, I went downstairs. Again.

A sight in the living room made me gasp.

“You’re eating?” I almost screamed. (I don’t scream very often, only when I’m taken to the very edge of my patience.)

My darling husband nodded, masticating on a mouthful of torta.

“Just half an hour more, I promise. I’ll be quick.” (A side remark: my husband is a very slow eater. It takes him an hour to eat, whatever the food is.)

“You do realize that our youngest daughter could have slept all this time, right? She is overtired, in a foul mood and not so receptive of a long drive in a car?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry.” I could see that he really wasn’t, given the fact that the team he had rooted for, had just won the match.

I marched upstairs. In 15 minutes my husband followed me, still chewing his last bite.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. And this time, he was right. We got out of the house and into the car by 2:30 pm. An hour and a half later we were already in our relatives’ place.

No apologies to the family, no explanations. We walked in and were greeted cordially, given refreshments, asked about our trip. No angry faces, no accusations, though we were at least two hours late.

It was a patience-developing experience. And did I learn from that? Of course not. By the next visit, I had myself and the kids ready again by the named hour, though we didn’t move until an hour later. Some habits do die hard, and some, I guess, never.

 

“

Blog post 76: where I cross a bridge

Near our house there’s a railway. Actually there are as many as four railway tracks. In the olden days (more than two years ago), the people used to cross the tracks just like normal people do – they just walked over them to get to the other side (to the market, to the neighbouring colonia, to visit friends, to take a walk in the park, etc). Then the Suburbano arrived. It’s an electric train line that connects the northern part of Mexico City with the not so northern part where people can take the subway to wherever they need to go to in the city. Great and most welcome addition to the city’s infrastructure, if you ask me. Some people (bus drivers, for example) might disagree.

Now, since Suburbano is fast and electric and new, some precautions were taken in the form of a high metal grid wall that was erected around two railway tracks (the other two were reserved for cargo trains).

As if that would make a Mexican take a bridge across the tracks. Nope, they cut through the wire and made a nice little shortcut. It worked very well until the train traffic started. It forced people to take the bridge. To make the whole thing more pleasant, a new bridge was built as well – for those who push strollers or drive bicycles or consider the 124 steps of the old bridge too many to climb.

The new bridge quickly gained popularity in the neighborhood and along with the increased traffic, if tempted some strange folk as well. Like a drug addict, who decided it would be a good place to settle down and extort the bridge-taking people into giving him some money in exchange of not hitting them or throwing them off the bridge. It didn’t continue for very long, since lots of children like the bridge and the parents love their children. I don’t know what happened to the addict, but he hasn’t been around for a while.

Some time ago, a woman decided to make one of three-sided concrete panels of the old bridge her new home. It looks like this:

Despite what you might think, she’s very orderly. Yes, she spends most of her time talking with invisible persons and shooing them off her property, but she’s very friendly with the visible persons and she hasn’t burnt down much of the dry grass. At least not so much as to be evicted from her home-under-the-bridge.

As much as I know, she can take care of herself. I don’t know if she has a job or people who pass her home give her money. Maybe both, maybe neither. Usually, when I pass the bridge, she’s not there, or she’s busy cooking or with some other household chore. She hasn’t slowed the bridge traffic and the parents are not afraid of their children, so I believe that if something drastic doesn’t happen, of if she doesn’t get bored with the place, she’ll stay there for a long time.

You won’t hear me complaining about it – a home is a home, be it the Windsor Castle or a hollow concrete panel.

Blog post 75: where Christmas arrives with a bang

December 24th began so nicely for our family. We had recovered from the primera comunion party we held on the 22nd, and the family was full of energy and goodwill. So off they went to buy meat for the pozole – my sister-in-law makes fantastic pozole with a little bit of magic in it and is never stingy with the meat. Oh, I could write a poem about that soup, a soup that tastes so fine it’s a crime to call it a soup. They should rename it in her honor and then celebrate it every year with a national holiday and a huge party. (I’m sure they will someday. They have to.)

When they got back from their shopping trip, my father-in-law received a shocking news – his brother and nephew had been shot and were currently in the hospital. After a few moments of gathering emotions and letting the news sink in, he, with his two sons, rushed to see them.

I asked my husband, if I should continue preparing our family’s Christmas lunch, as I didn’t know if it was proper, but he said to carry on.

“We’ll eat and then go and see the rest of the family,” he said.

We always celebrate Christmas with his mother’s side of the family. It’s a long-standing tradition and an occasion that brings everybody closer together. This year was no exception. The news of the shooting traveled fast and by 10 pm, when we reached the place, everybody had had time to prepare themselves. My father-in-law had been calmed by the doctors who said that his brother and nephew were out of danger and their condition stabilized, and on this high note the dinner (with the heavenly pozole) could commence.

Around midnight, the family did something that proved to me yet again, how solid was the rock they were carved from. Each one of us, including the children, said a few words, mainly about what Christmas means to them, but also mentioned the  current situation. It was 45 minutes of speeches that touched the soul, soothed it and filled it with hope. This is the thing with my Mexican family – they always find the right words, they cry and they laugh and they grow stronger and more united. I saw it first when my father-in-law had a heart attack a few years back and from then on, at every occasion (nice or not so nice) that required the family to step in.

It was quite natural that after the speeches, they held a prayer and then I felt it with the full force. You know, the feeling of being so overwhelmed your stomach constringes and though you smile, tears fill your eyes and you are at loss of words and can only make some weird, guttural noises. I wasn’t the only one, I saw several people holding back their tears and making short breaks in their prayer.

Then it was time for the fireworks, because Christmas is no Christmas without a bagful of rockets released to the sky.

In the end I didn’t get to have a merry, jolly Christmas this year, but I got something more valuable – the knowing that in some small way, I too, contributed to the unitedness of my family. I will continue to do my part every day, be it helping my sister-in-law prepare centerpieces for the party tables, or making cinnamon rolls, or teaching the kids how to make paper snowflakes. I am integrated to the family. And let me tell you – it feels good.

Blog post 74: where I go out on a scary night

In Mexico, going out on the eve of November 1st and 2nd should be considered a personal risk to one’s sanity and adrenalin level. So if you’re not completely sure if pumpkins should have faces and feet and be pushed around in carreolas

or if skeletons should be wearing hats and double layers of shirts

you are better off staying inside. The same applies if you’re easily spooked by crazy decorations. Some of htem are so scary that chase away people AND house pets!

I, on the other hand, love going out on those nights, especially since my daughter is old enough to enjoy the fuss and dressing up and face painting, etc.

This year we (me, my daughter, my sister-in-law and her whole family) toured in our local neighborhood and enjoyed ourselves immensely. How could we not, having two blue-haired Emilys from Corpse Bride

and one of them falling for a corpse. Talk about star-crossed lovers!

But the best part of the night was a visit to the Devil’s Cave

It wasn’t enough to have a mad monk preaching at us

they had to add a very special clown that scared the hell out of our party’s most sensitive member (a vampire, no less!)

Oh, I’m SO going trick-or-treating next year!

 

Blog post 73: where salsa music gets the best of me

I want to know how to dance. More precisely, I want to know how to dance salsa. Why? Because a few weeks ago my friend and I went to a nightclub. Not just any nightclub, but a club with live music, expensive drinks and clean bathrooms. It was a Saturday night, the place was medium crowded, but the dance floor was never empty. As soon as the band started a song, the people flocked to the dance floor and left at the end of the song to make room for new people. Marvellous migration!

It was on the dance floor where I found out a sad truth – my body doesn’t know I’m a Mexican yet. Why else would it remain stiff and rigid and prohibit every hip move I tried to make? I felt like an untrained circus bear on a rickety old bicycle. I have to thank the people in the club who were very kind not to die of laughter at the sight of me dancing. I appreciate it, I really do. It must have been difficult for them to contain themselves, especially since I’m not an easy target to miss, but they did. What they told their families and friends the next day, might be a different story and I’d rather not dwell into it – my ego is pretty bruised and fragile right now.

So nope, I can’t dance salsa. It’s gnawing on me, like a rat on the soft wood of the pantry door. Sitting and sipping my lemonade (brought to me by a very quick, polite and gentle waiter) I had time to watch the people on the dance floor and it didn’t make me feel any better.

Actually, I’m wrong here. It did make me feel better, in a way. Mexicans have salsa in their blood, their feet start to move before their brains register the song, they twist and turn and step and side step to the rhythm and it’s not only the girls I’m talking about. The men too. Oh, the way the men move their hips makes me want to be single again. Or, at the very least, make me want to take some salsa lessons, to catch up with the crowd. What I will remember of that night is the feeling of carefree merriment. It was so good to watch the people, to see them enjoying the evening, not getting very drunk and dancing all night long. You don’t see this very often in certain parts of the Old World, which is a pity.

The band danced too. Yep, they had four singers who performed the songs and moved to the rhythm. Also, a band member (a very tall, stout man with long braids) occasionally stepped up and moved on the stage together with the singers. He got the best ovations and for a good reason. For a tall man, his feet were light and his body made of rubber. Oh, he was good, just like the singers. Showing off, but not in a cocky way, taking their job seriously, but with a scoopful of humor.

I did get to move my hips that night, though. At one interlude, when the band was taking a break, they put quebradita on. Oh yes, thank you, Mr. VJ! I can do quebradita! I can do the left-toe-out-left-heel-in-right-heel-in-right-toe-out thing! And throw in a little kaera-jaan for some fun. So I’m not completely hopeless, I just need time and practice.

That night confirmed it. I want to learn salsa and I won’t stop until I get the basics, can use them in ANY salsa song, and can do some advanced steps as well. My husband will simply have to play along, since, you know, that’s what all good Mexican husbands do – they support their wives’ desire to shake some booty. Honestly, they like to shake some themselves. That’s the Mexican way. Come and see for yourselves, if you don’t believe it.

Blog post 72: where fauna becomes my new best friend

It’s time for another post in the “Spot that animal” series. This time I really tried and the photos turned out somewhat less enigmatic. I believe everybody recognizes a badger when they see one, right?

No? Neither did I, but the sign at Tepoztlan very clearly said that we shouldn’t feed the badgers (tejones in Spanish), which is why I think, some of these growling, squealing creatures with exceptionally long, sharp claws have become very resourceful.

I said resourceful, not smart.

Unlike this incredibly blurry bird, who knew exactly what he wanted.

Me like shiny objects! You, human, give me your shiny object!

With the next photo you might have some hesitations. Is it a real animal, or is it just a artfully melted piece of plastic? I guarantee you, it’s the real thing.

So is this.

To end the post on a relaxing note, I present to you my very best picture of that day – an iguana (or the like – sorry, the reptiles confuse me) enjoying the life.

Because, you know, s/he can.

Blog post 71: where I become a silly tourist

The best part of having a friend visiting me is, of course, the opportunity to drive around. Last week we did that a lot and one of the places we visited was La Concha, a small town up in the mountains near Toluca where my mother-in-law grew up. Since both her parents are buried there, we always go to the cemetery.

I’ve talked about Mexican cemeteries before, but I don’t think I’ve quite captured their quiet beauty. When/if you get past the uneasy feeling of literally walking on the tombs (here’s why you have to do it – there is little or no space between the graves)

you might find something strikingly beautiful

and heartwarming

I don’t know whom these tombs belong to, but I’d like to think that the people buried under them were loved by their family and relatives.

Now, the only thing I like more than driving around and contemplating graves in the cemeteries, is unleashing the silly sight-seer in me who has to take photos of absolutely everything. If you combine the two, you will get a wild-eyed me standing near a stream that flows around and through La Concha, shouting at my friend,

“You stand still! I don’t care if your feet are freezing in the water, I want to take one more picture of you!”

The flora and fauna got the same treatment that day, which is why my husband gladly stayed in the car until I was done cooing and hooting and squealing and whispering at every new plant (preferably a flower) that I found near that tiny river. He did give a benevolent, if not tired nod when I finally got back to the car and was generous enough to look at some of the photos and say that if the inner botanist in me was finally happy, he was happy for me too. That’s why I love him so much. He might not understand my fascination with (purple) flowers, but he goes along with it anyway.

But how can you NOT take a picture of this

or this

or this

and especially this

Yep, in my past life I must have been a wildlife enthusiast or a crazy, purple-obsessed person. I’m afraid it’s the latter.

AND, guess what I got for my birthday this year? A gentle pink cyclamen that I have always wanted! I swear it has a purple hue to it! I swear! Thank you, my dear friend, for this lovely gift! I will try very hard not to kill it through negligence or over-pampering. I hope I’ll succeed.

Blog post 70: where I take a walk in my neighborhood

I’ve said in several previous posts that I live in a humble neighborhood. It’s true, when we consider humility by the amount of income per capita, but the picture is a whole lot different when it comes to nature.

The other day I took my friend to a walk. We were armed with our cameras and feeling very confident about the discoveries we were going to make.

Here’s what we ended up with:

a not so tiny butterfly trying to get a drink from a puddle.

a banana tree with a flower AND some appetizing green bananas

unidentified purple flowers (I love purple, especially in flowers. You should see my balcony, covered with pots of bright purple Bougainvillea, carnations and pinkish-purplish azaleas)

and something that is surprisingly popular in these gardens, despite it being the most poisonous plant in the world

I do love the plant though, it’s so lush and seductive and thrives in our sandy soil and contaminated air.

Just as I thought I had got all the important photos, this little fluttering beauty landed on my bathroom floor. How could I not rush to the living room, take my camera and blind this creature with the flash?

And I didn’t even take pictures of the palm trees, fuchsias/magentas or canna lilies or the daturas/Angel’s Trumpets that grow everywhere.

Richness beyond all expectations, I’d say, if I wanted to use a hyperbole.

Instead, I say, “A small community in Edomex, in September. Nice, very nice.”

Blog post 69: where I take my friend to the zumba class

OK, so I have a favorite zumba coach. It was inevitable, really. After all, I’ve been going to zumba for 6 months now and am entitled to choose the coaches who fit my personality, my needs and my style of music. I’m glad to let you know that I have found a coach who can fulfill all these items in my list.

Oh, you’d like him too. He’s tall, handsome, athletic, with invisible springs under his feet (I swear to Godiva he does and I’m not afraid to repeat it ten times over), looks like he’s been taking some (or a hundred) boxing lessons and his energy levels are off the chart. Also, when he smiles he looks like a 16-year-old, which is always a big plus with me.

On top of that, there’s the music. Zorba, Hava Nagila, Gypsy Kings, various cumbia (including Andean cumbia) and salsa songs, rock’n’roll, twist, cha-cha-cha, quebradita, reggaeton, etc. – these songs speak to me, they do. It’s always easier to do exercise when you like the music, I’ve found, and I truly enjoy his choices.

Another great thing about his class is that it’s zumba. Let me explain this in a few words. There are lots of coaches out there, and I have taken classes from only a few, but all of them have a distinct style – some like it fast, some like it with easier steps, but with many repetitions, some work power dance into their classes, some like it all dance and no exercise, some the other way round, etc. It’s all good, but it doesn’t work with me. I need an exercise that is also a dance and a dance that is also an exercise. And my coach (I take the liberty of calling him mine and hope he won’t be offended by it) delivers it. In his class my clumsy feet are not longer clumsy, I feel the rhythm and live it and I can almost hear my body thanking me for giving it something graceful and fun to do.

So yes, I really like him and what he does. That’s why I decided to take my friend to his class, to share this experience. Her words to me after the class were, “He moves his feet faster than a gossiper her tongue at a marketplace.” I know what she means, since I had the very same thought (OK, not the VERY SAME thought, but a very similar one) when I finished my first class with him.

Conclusion: we’re planning to go to his classes for as long as my friend stays in Mexico. Not even Tepoztlan or the pyramids, or a shopping tour can stop us. Because, in the end, when you find something that’s good for you, you stick with it, don’t you?

Blog post 68: where I celebrate the Independence Day

One of the perks of having friends over from my “old country” is the opportunity to experience Mexico anew, which is what I did this weekend.

To start from the beginning, my friend arrived on Wednesday and was immediately overwhelmed and pleased with the smog, the altitude and the hills and was positively terrified of the traffic.

To get her comfortable with the Mexican lifestyle, I fed her gorditas, tacos al pastor and explained that Coca-Cola is a national drink. She stuck to her milk and green tea, to my great alleviation.

On Saturday, my husband and his brother had a great idea.

“Let’s go to Pachuca for the Independence Day,” they said, almost in unison.

“My in-laws have a trout farm there, so you can all eat fish and admire the wonderful mountains, even go to the abandoned silver mine,” my brother-in law said. We started nodding eagerly when he was half way through the sentence. He added, “Some friends of mine are coming with us, I hope you’re OK with it.” Our heads kept moving up and down like the bobbing toys in cars on a bumpy road.

And, to Pachuca we went. A clarification – Pachuca is the capital of Hidalgo, a state northeast to the Edomex. The trout farm is not IN Pachuca, it’s in the surrounding mountains, but it’s just a small linguistic detail.

Upon arriving, the nature presented to us her own version of dressing up for the occasion.

From there on, it was a treasure after treasure, captured by our camera lenses.

A lovely green bug, minding its business on a tree stump

A fluffy, white rabbit’s tail, waving in the wind

And of course, the most precious treasure of them all – wild strawberries that made out mouths water

We did go to the mines, we did experience echo-less sound and darkness so thick you couldn’t rip it with Thor’s hammer. Also, we ate trout, prepared with onions, tomatoes and hojasanta. Delicious!

When it was time to go home, my husband approached us with a blank face. With more than seven years of knowing him, I could not be fooled.

“What is it?” I blurted out even before he could open his mouth.

“Well, my brother and his friends are thinking of going to Real del Monte to see the fireworks.

“Oh, good!” I exclaimed.

“So you’re up to it?” he said, sending glances between me and my friend who looked a bit tired.

“Sure,” she said. I guess she wanted to know what the fuss was about the fireworks.

Real del Monte was magical. It’s a small mining town/tourist magnet and not even the rain couldn’t change it. In fact, I think the haze-like rain made it even more beautiful. We had our late night snack – pastes – and then it was time for the grito. El grito is a traditional way of reinforcing patriotism in Mexican people.  (They really don’t need it, patriotism radiates out of them in everything they do, but for the sake of tradition and reliving history, they repeat it every year, to commemorate the moment when Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, el padre de la Patria – the father of the nation and the country, together with his co-conspirators, decided to fight against their overseas rulers and make Mexico a sovereign state.)

My friend was thrilled. The grito, the fireworks, the crowd cheering – it was a very powerful experience for her and she enjoyed it immensely, despite her being so very tired of the long day.

On Sunday we slept long and after waking up we had a casual conversation about cakes, which lead us to drive to our local Comercial Mexicana where we bought a selection of Mexican sweet bread, muffins and donuts. We then headed to the centre of Tlalnepantla where they had a temporary feria put up.

“Oh, the Mexicans are so loud,” my friend said when we were safely back in the car, after an hour of getting on the attractions, eating corn dogs and discussing whether buying fake moustache is a good idea. “I like it,” she added. “They live through sounds and their loudness is that of happy tunes and merriment.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Happy Independence Day, Mexico!

Viva Mexico!