N a n S e e k i n g N o n s e q u i t u r s

2008-07-20T21:37:00.004-06:00

Today I had lunch at the Tio Yeyo Restaurant in Coátepec with Laura González and her husband Robert, daughter Aralisa, and son Ian. Aralisa, a biologist who lives here in Xalapa, picked me up and drove us to the restaurant, located on the outskirts of Coátepec near a river that feeds the trout ponds that supply the trout served at the restaurant.

As you can see from this photo, the Tio Yeyo rises modestly among trees, flowers, flowering trees, grass, and wild flowers, and a stream that requires a foot bridge to reach the restaurant.

2008-07-13T13:58:00.015-06:00

On the way to the beach, La Mancha, two weekends ago, June 29, my guides--four fellow English teachers at the Centro de Idiomas--and I stopped at a restaurant in Rinconada for brunch.

In the photo above, Gregorio, José Miguel, Luís, and I are posing while Janeth takes the picture. Just behind our table, women are working over a large comal to make fresh garnachas--which we ate with gusto.

Then we piled back into Gregorio's VW and headed for the beach. The ocean water felt cool when we first inched into it, but it soon began to feel just right. The sky was overcast for the most part, so it wasn't too hot--but I found out that night that it didn't prevent me from getting a bad sunburn. (Yes, I did put on sunscreen, but I should have reapplied it periodically.)

After three hours or so, we gathered up our stuff and headed toward La Antigua for something to eat and to visit the first chapel built in America. Here we are in a riverside restaurant where a tropical band was playing when we first arrived.

Then we went to see the first chapel in America, built by Spaniards in 1523. It is a small building, still in use, well maintained. To test the acoustics, José Miguel sang some Gregorian chant, remembered from his childhood, that filled the whole chapel.

Read about La Antigua on this blog (scroll down about one-fourth of the way) to learn more about this chapel and see better photos than mine here.

2008-07-05T11:46:00.017-06:00

Last night on the “glorious 4th” (Independence Day in the United States) I was invited by fellow English teacher Laura González to a concert of the Xalapa Symphony Orchestra with Tania Libertad, a singer I had never heard of before—although she is well known here in México. Peruvian by birth, she’s lived in México for many years. (Here you can read about her and sample her voice, but the samples really don’t do justice to the power and range of her vocal abilities.)

It was a wonderful evening—and not just for Libertad’s beautiful voice and impassioned interpretations but for the symphony orchestra, directed by Fernando Lozano, as well. For one thing, watching Lozano—a tall man in the tercer edad (the third age) as they say here—was a pleasure in itself: his gray hair clearly styled by a protégé of Einstein’s hairdresser, his directing at times an elegant dance, at other times a pounce, sometimes languid, sometimes lively, always interesting to watch.

Here is a list of the music I heard—and I write it down here so that when I return, I can begin to acquire some of it. If you’re not familiar with it either, dear readers, I encourage you to try it out.

The orchestra played two pieces of music before Libertad came on stage for each of the concert’s two parts: “Conga del Fuego Nuevo” and “Danzón,” both composed by Arturo Márquez. I loved them both.

Libertad sang these songs:

“Mañana de carnaval” (Luis Bonfa)
“Placer de amor” (Schwarzendorf)
“Rival” (Agustín Lara—a Veracruzana, incidentally, and much loved here)
“Los pájaros perdidos” (Astor Piáosla)
“La Guinda” (Edusebio Delfín)
“Cuando sale la luna” (José Alfredo Jiménez)
“Caruso” (L. Dalla)
“Noche de Ronda” (Agustín Lara)
“Himno al amor” (M. Mannote)
“Piensa en mi” (Agustín Lara)
“Syboney” (Ernesto Lecuona)

And for an encore, demanded by the audience with chants of “Otra! Otra!”(Another! Another!), Libertad sang Schubert’s “Ave Maria” and—a cappella—“Alfonsina y el mar,” an especial favorite of the crowd.

After the concert, Laura gave me a ride home, but we didn’t get far from the concert hall for about a half hour because of the huge line of cars exiting the Universidad Veracruzana campus. So she parked her car at the top of a hill overlooking the hilly city of Xalapa, the view softened by a thin fog. Around us were palm trees and araucarias (a native evergreen tree) and the tall grass fed to exuberant heights by the rains that have fallen during this rainy season. We lowered the windows to enjoy the cool night air and take in the sights better. We could see far away on another hill in the center of the city the cathedral, clearly lit, a beacon on a hill.

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Back to the topic of the United States' Independence Day, July 4, readers who haven't been to the U.S. might be interested in learning how we celebrate this day. You can find a smorgasbord of information, articles, and photo slideshows of this year's celebration on the New York Times website. Also, have a look at "A Taste of Independence," an article that talks about what people traditionally eat as they celebrate this day--and how immigrants to the country have added their own twists to these traditions.

2008-06-23T15:20:00.014-06:00

Two weekends ago, I went to Mexico City where I met Brenda Lopotro, another Fulbright Exchange teacher.

On Thursday night, after a six-hour bus trip, I arrived at the bus terminal and took a taxi to the Hotel Calinda Geneva located in the Zona Rosa, an area close to Mexico City's historic center. It’s also the gay district and offers tourist a lot of shopping and restaurants.

On Friday, Brenda took me to see some of Diego Rivera’s murals. We got our big disappointment of the day out of the way quickly: we’d gone to the SEP (Secretaría de Educación Pública) building to see the three floors (!) of Rivera’s murals displayed on the walls there, but we were turned away by guards who said the building was closed and wouldn’t be open to visitors again on Monday—alas, we’d be gone from Mexico City by then. Brenda told me that the last time she’d tried to see the murals several months ago, guards had told her the same thing.

But onward and upward. Next, we headed for the Palacio Nacional, an historical building where Hernán Cortez once lived and where Mexican presidents have an office, at least nominally, for formal occasions. It’s also the building where the president gives the grito (in remembrance of Miguel Hidalgo’s grito, or battle cry in 1810) on September 15, on the eve of Mexico’s Day of Independence from Spain. September 15 is actually the day its war for independence began in 1810. It wasn’t achieved until 1821.

One of Rivera’s murals in the National Palace spans the three walls that rise above the double staircase leading up to the second floor. Brenda and I stood on the second floor landing to view this epic depiction of Mexico’s history and Rivera’s vision of a socialist state in which, finally, Mexico’s poor and indigenous people would rise to the level of their deserving. To read more about this mural, click on these links:

Right wall
Center wall
Left wall

The mural—and all the other murals covering the walls on the second floor of the palace—deserved much more time and study than we gave them. Brenda had seen these murals before, and she helped me see certain details that I probably wouldn’t have noticed or understood without her help. And she herself noticed new details that she hadn’t discovered before. The paintings are so rich in history and symbolism that, I think, if I could take in everything they contain, I’d understand Mexico’s history and culture in great depth.

Next we went to the Museo Mural Diego Rivera, which houses “Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park,” one of his most well-known murals. In fact, the museum was built to display this one mural. It covers one whole wall, and in front of it, at viewing distance, a line of armchairs and two comfortable couches invites people to sit and study it. Brenda, again thegood guide, helped me identify some of the people in the mural, and I had fun trying to figure out the identities of others on my own. Rivera wasn’t a bit subtle in his depictions of the good and the bad guys. Still, I know I missed a lot by not knowing more about Mexican history and culture.

I was intrigued by Rivera’s death mask and a sculpture of his hand—actually, I think it was a mold—displayed at this museum, too. The face and the hand showed that he was a smaller man in the flesh than I had imagined him to be. Perhaps I was misled into thinking he was a big man by the photos of him with Frida Kahlo, who must have been petite, judging from her tiny torso brace that I saw the next day hanging in her museum, the Casa Azul. Certainly Rivera was big around the waist and big in artistic stature, but if the mask and sculpture are to be believed, he wasn’t big-boned.

Behind the sofas and chairs were two maps of the mural—one in Spanish, one in English—with all the outlined figures numbered to help viewers identify them and learn a little about them and their relevance in the scheme of the mural.

After we left, we did some shopping in nearby stores featuring the work of Mexican artisans—Brenda bought a beautiful top and a turquoise bracelet, shown here—and then we headed to the Museo Dolores Olmedo Museum. Dolores Olmedo was a wealthy woman who was also a friend of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera (as well as his model and probably his lover at some point; Rivera was a notorious womanizer). Olmedo shared Kahlo and Rivera’s political views, and when she died, she gave her lovely home and fabulous art collection to the Mexican people.

The grounds around the house are beautiful—large expanses of green grass, flowers, trees, sculptures of Juan Soriano, and peacocks ambling around. Mexican hairless dogs are also kept there, the same breed whose image appears in all of Diego Rivera’s murals. This breed dates back to the time of the Aztecs.

Although visitors are allowed to take photos of the museum grounds, unfortunately photos aren't permitted to be taken inside.

The rooms of the house are divvied up between those devoted to Kahlo’s art and those devoted to Rivera’s. Interspersed among the paintings in each room are prehispanic sculptures and religious artifacts as well as religious icons of Spanish origin.

I was especially interested in a painting—Diego Rivera’s last—of watermelons after Brenda told me that Frida Kahlo’s last painting was of the same subject—watermelons—on which she inscribed the words Viva la Vida ("Long live life"). The fact that Kahlo was in pain much of her life, to me, gives those words a triumphant and defiant ring. And did Rivera make a conscious choice to echo her last creative act? Surely he did, joining her in affirming life--and also affirming her--by using the same symbol.
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Brenda had to leave Mexico City the next day early in order to make her flight back to the U.S. at 7:00am. I woke long enough to see her off, and then I went back to bed. When I woke later at the civilized hour of 9:00, I dressed and went to the Starbucks on the corner to get coffee and a sandwich for breakfast. Then I walked two blocks to the nearby subway station (Insurgentes) to get to Coyoacán, an artist community/suburb of Mexico City where Frida Kahlo grew up and died, and where Trotsky and his wife Natalie lived for several years—and where he was assassinated.

It wasn’t easy to get to the Casa Azul, the house (and now museum) where Frida Kahlo was born and died. From the guidebook I was using, I knew I’d have to take a pesero (a bus) from the Metro station to a bus stop on a major street, and from there I’d have to walk or take a taxi.

So when I emerged from the Metro, I asked directions of several people, none of whom knew the street I was looking for. Then I asked a woman who told me to board a certain pesero across the street from where we were standing. I crossed the street and waited for that particular bus—and another helpful woman asked the driver of a bus that she thought was the right one if his bus was the one I needed, and he said it was. (This same woman told me a Mexican dicho that I don’t want to forget: “Preguntando, se llega a Roma.” ["By asking questions, one arrives in Rome.”])

So I boarded—only to find out a couple miles down the road that the bus driver had thought I was looking for the Coyoacán Metro station, not the suburb. So I got off the bus and backtracked partly by foot and partly by Metro to my original stop, where I started over again. I reflected on the dicho my helper had told me not long before--Preguntando, se llega a Roma—and I decided that the saying was still true, but I realized one might have to travel through Singapore first.

This time I asked a zapatero (I’m not sure this is the correct word in Spanish), a shoe-shine guy located outside the Metro stop, and he told me where to find the correct street corner to find the correct pesero. Whew! Soon I was walking along Calle Tres Cruces heading toward Casa Azul.

Along the way, I ran into a used bookstore, Librería Tres Calles, which looks more like a book warehouse than a bookstore. I felt like I’d stumbled into heaven. I found a large section of books in English on the second floor, where I chose a few books for my friend and fellow English teacher Luís Méndez, who has been so generous about lending me books in English from his personal library over the past year. (I typically read the newspaper and books in Spanish in the afternoon, but before I go to sleep at night, I like to read in English.)

Then I forced myself to leave the bookstore—I could have spent hours there—and pressed on to the Casa Azul. And it was worth wrenching myself away from the books.

Fast forward: This weekend, I watched the movie Frida that another English teacher here, Josefina, lent me, and I was delighted to see in the first and last scenes of the movie the same Casa Azul I saw last weekend. In the movie, I saw scenes that included the Mexican hairless dogs, the Pyramids of the Sun and the Moon at Teotihuacán, Frida’s bed with a mirror overhead that allowed her to paint some of her self-portraits, and a cast and back brace that she wore at different times in her life.

One of the most startling and poignant sights in the Casa Azul, for me, was Kahlo's tiny bedroom whose windows and the door on one wall look out onto the patio in the center of the museum that was once her home. I could imagine that she needed to be able to look out and see sunlight, trees, and flowers from that tiny room where her many operations imprisoned her. Now, on her single bed, there rests a black death mask of her face, surrounded by a rebozo that gives the illusion of covering her hair and neck. If you click on the photo here, you can see a larger although blurry image. Next to the pillow, you can see the death head, and at the foot of the bed is a plaster torso cast Frida once wore.

I also saw her last painting, the watermelon-Viva-La-Vida painting in one of the rooms of the house that serves as a gallery. Because it isn't permitted to take photos inside the house, I took the photos of Frida's bedroom and the watermelon painting from outside.

When I left the Casa Azul after spending about two hours there, I walked the six blocks or so to the house where Trotsky and his wife lived after they fell out with Diego and Frida—but not before, it’s said, that she and Trotsky had an affair.

Trotsky’s house intrigued and touched me even more than Kahlo’s. The museum made it clear that Trotsky was very much in danger from Stalin—and the movie Frida provides a scene in which Trotsky tells Frida that four of their—his and Natalie’s—children were hunted down and killed after he fled Russia. Two attempts on his life were made in Mexico, one unsuccessful—that left gouges in the bedroom walls, visible still, where he and his wife escaped death by ducking into a corner next to the window where Mexican artists/Stalinists attempted to shoot him. The second attempt successfully ended his life. He was killed by an axe for cutting ice that was plunged into his skull by a Stalin supporter who gained entry and acceptance in the house by wooing one of Trotsky’s secretaries.

I saw Trotsky’s study and his library, and I saw the papers on his desk that were there on the day he was killed. (He was writing a book on the life of Stalin that he never finished.) I saw the cot in that room where he rested when his headaches became acute—he suffered from high blood pressure. I saw the dictation machine he used to dictate his book to his secretaries, and I saw the rabbit hutches that held the rabbits he cared for himself and some of the cacti he gathered from the nearby Mexican hills to decorate the garden of his home. And I saw the hammer-and-sickle symbol that crowns the concrete monument marking his and his wife’s grave in the garden of their Mexican home. Unfortunately, I ran out of space on my camera's memory card right before I entered the house, so I wasn't able to photograph any of it. The photo here shows the Trotskys' house with the garden in the foreground and the monument marking their graves.

It was almost 6pm when I left to return to the hotel by Metro.

A note: taking the subway in Mexico City is an adventure in itself. It is easy to navigate and cheap—2 pesos, or 20 cents US—to get around in this huge city of 20 million (or more) people.

Unfortunately, some of these people take advantage of the captive audience. On almost every stop, a new vendor will board the car and try to sell pirated CDs or DVDs by playing them on portable players, with the volume turned up LOUD, strapped on his/her person. Beggars and the disabled also use the Metro to ask for limosnas (charity). I enjoyed and gladly paid to hear a blind guitarist sing and hear his impassioned song as he moved slowly and unsteadily through the car.

Then there are those who bring theatre or, more correctly, the carnival to the Metro. Brenda had already told me about these guys, thank goodness, so I wasn’t quite so shocked as I would have been otherwise. Here’s what I witnessed twice: a young man, shirtless, entered the car while carrying his shirt like a sack. His back was scarred, and this is why: He lay his shirt in front of the doors of the subway car revealing the broken glass of beer bottles. All the while he was talking like an announcer or a barker. Then he moved away from the broken glass and—with a quick turn—made a gentle somersault, landing on his back in the broken glass.

The crunch of it made me flinch the first time.

But with hardly a pause, the young man rose and enfolded the glass in his shirt again. And then he walked throughout the car with his hand extended, asking for money. And although his back had red marks on it, there was no blood, probably because of all the scar tissue he'd built up over his career.

I didn’t give the young man anything either time because I didn’t want to encourage him to continue to make his living thus.
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I left Mexico City on Sunday afternoon, taking the bus back to Xalapa. It took only five hours to return (six hours to arrive), and it was good to get back home as usual. But I would love to return to Mexico City one more time before I return to Albuquerque on July 31.

2008-06-04T18:02:00.012-06:00

I wrote about my mother on Mothers Day, May 11, but I didn’t write about what I did on Mexico’s Mothers Day, which falls on the same date--May 10--here every year. This year, May 10 fell one day before Mothers Day in the U.S.

My fellow English teacher at the Centro de Idiomas in Xalapa, Gregorio, invited me to have dinner with him, his mother, his sisters, and other family members on that day. I found out that all of the members of his immediate family are teachers at different levels of education--including his mother, who is a retired teacher.

La comida was served on the patio where tables were set up under a canopy and umbrella to shield against the early-afternoon sun. I don't remember everything on the menu, but I do remember how delicious the chicken and the gelatina de rompope were.

-But before we ate, the party—members of Gregorio’s family—sang “Las Mañanitas” to all the mothers in the group. This song is the traditional birthday song in México, but I found out that it's sung on Mothers Day as well.

I had a great time. The walled-in patio is beautifully designed, with flowers and trees around the edges and the gurgling of a fountain adding to the ambience. I enjoyed being with Gregorio's family, visiting, and relaxing in that lovely space. (Please click on the photos to see more details.)

After that, Margarita went with me to a quinceañera in a nearby pueblito just outside of Xalapa. The invitation was extended to me by Susana Molina, the woman who sells me the Diario AZ (my favorite Xalapa daily newspaper) every weekday at a newsstand close to the school. It was her daughter, Yamileth (pictured here between her aunt and Susana), whose fifteenth birthday was being celebrated.

As soon as we arrived at the salon where the event took place, Susana greeted us and introduced us to her children, sister, father, and her husband, Javier Conde. And we were fed heaping plates of food, including barbacoa, rice, tortillas, and salsa—and later cake—although I couldn't really do justice to it because I was still full from the meal I’d eaten at Gregorio’s house.

One of the rituals that formed part of the coming-of-age ceremony for Yamileth was the presentation of a doll from the parents to the daughter—the last doll they will give her now that she has passed from childhood into young womanhood.

2008-05-15T21:09:00.019-06:00

Today is Teachers Day in Mexico, so teachers at all levels had the day off, and the schools were closed.

One of my colleagues at the Centro de Idiomas, Gregorio, offered to take me to see Zempoala and the beach nearby about an hour and 15 minutes away from Xalapa. As it turned out, we went in another teacher’s—Bertha’s—car, which has air conditioning while Gregorio’s doesn’t. Ana Lilia and Jose Miguel, two other English teachers, went with us as well.

We left Xalapa at 10 this morning and stopped first at Zempoala [pronounced Sem-poh-AH-lah] to see the pyramids there. Gregorio was an excellent guide and gave me the history behind this Totonacan site, which Hernán Cortez and his men came to and conquered in 1519. (In the picture above, you can see the Gladators' Stadium behind Bertha, Gregorio, me, and Ana Lilia.)

From the ruins at Zempoala, we drove to Quiahuitzlan [Key-ah-WHEATS-lan] to the place where the Totanacos built a city about mid way up a mountain that juts above the surrounding coastal area, renowned for its Totanac tombs and the gorgeous view of the beach below.

On the way there, we made several stops at small stores to buy ice and beer. The beer wasn't hard to come by, but the ice was. Finally, we found a place that had some. As we headed back to the car, I caught José Miguel using a tree to scratch his back, bear-like, and couldn't resist taking a picture.

After we’d wandered around the ruins of Quiahuitzlan, we drove down to the beach of Villa Rica and headed straight for the water to cool off. I hadn’t brought my bathing suit, but I went in in my clothes. I loved being in the water, sometimes standing up to the waves and at other times bobbing with them. Here's a photo of Gregorio hamming it up.

Finally, we went to a little restaurant, Los Cuates, in a little town nearby and had mojarra, a fish found in this area of Veracruz. It arrived, head, tail, and all, accompanied by pico de gallo, guacamole, and fresh corn tortillas. Deliciosa!

It was evening when we headed back to Xalapa. We were all tired from the sun and sea, and it was good to get home. But we all agreed it had been a great way to spend El Dia de Maestros.

I’m heading out tomorrow for Puebla to meet my fellow Fulbright teachers Cece and Brenda. They’re leaving Mexico next month, so this will be our last hurrah together here. Lucky me—I’ll be here until the end of July.

2008-05-11T08:52:00.018-06:00

Today is Mothers Day in the U.S. I’m far away from my mother on this day, but I'm thinking about her, and I want to take a minute here to tell you about her.

My mother, Lois Orstad King, was born in North Dakota. Her parents, both of whose parents were Norwegian immigrants, farmed a beautiful little farm in the Red River Valley of the North less than 100 miles from the Canadian border. She learned to speak Norwegian before she learned English. She was 5 when the Great Depression blighted the country, but she told me that her family of seven—her parents and five children—never went hungry because they had a garden, chickens and thus eggs, seven cows, and crops of wheat and potatoes that fed them. They didn’t have much cash money, but at least, she said, they had plenty to eat unlike many others during that time.

My mom graduated from high school (here's her graduation picture) when she was 16 (it was 1940 or thereabouts) and then went to work in a bank and later in a government office during the war years. She quit her job when she married my dad, Murray King, in 1945 at 21. It was a marriage of opposites, an oil-and-water combination. Culturally and temperamentally and in practically every other way, they were very different. He was the descendent of Irish forbears (with a dash of German), a very different culture from the Norwegian heritage of my mother. He was Catholic, and she was Lutheran, but she agreed to raise their children as Catholics, and she kept her word, helping us learn our catechism and prayers, making sure we made our first communions and were confirmed. He, the son of an attorney, had gone to college for two years. She was the daughter of farmers, and her father had finished high school but her mother had not.

My parents had six kids between 1945 and 1960: Guy O’Gorman, David Murray, Katherine Ann, Kevin Michael, Jason Harold Elmer (the lucky boy got both grandfathers’ names tacked onto his first name), and me. My dad supported us through a variety of jobs over the years, from preparating taxes to selling quonset huts and insurance, running a tavern, managing a potato processing plant, and finally, working for the Soil Conservation Service. Like many fathers of the '50s in the U.S., he shared in his children's conception and left the raising of them to their mother.

Thanks to her, our house was always clean, our clothes always pressed and mended, our bellies always filled, our birthdays always celebrated, Sunday mass always attended, green worn on St. Patrick's Day, stories read to us as children, nursery rhymes taught to us, songs sung to us--in short, despite the many moves and insecurities brought on by our dad's job changes, our mother gave us loving care and stability. (But don't get me wrong: our dad had many fine qualities, and he shaped us in ways for which we're grateful. We loved him dearly and still miss him since his death in 1974 at age 54.)

But I'm writing about my mother today. I could write a book about her cooking and baking alone. In fact, some of my best memories from childhood center around the food she would make for us, not just on holidays but everyday. I grew up knowing that we were poor, but I had no idea until later that there were times when there wasn’t much food in the house. I realized later that my mother often had to call upon her gift for turning a few simple ingredients—flour, sugar, potatoes, a bit of bacon or beef, a can of tomatoes or peas, noodles, cheese, and especially leftovers—into smacking-good, rib-sticking meals, and we kids had no idea how bare the pantry really was. On Fridays, true to her word to raise us as Catholics, she would make some of our very favorite meatless dishes: macaroni and cheese, creamed peas on toast, fish sticks and potato patties, salmon patties, grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade tomato soup…oy vey! I could go for any of it right this minute.

Odes should be written about her cinnamon rolls, chocolate-chip-nut cake, snickerdoodles, fudge, puddings from scratch, and especially her pies. I recall most fondly the pleasure of eating her lemon meringue pies and her chocolate pies with sesame seeds in the crust and whipped cream on top. Oh, lordy, that woman could bake! How can I forget coming home from school on a snowy North Dakota day to the sight of my mother pulling a pan of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven that warmed and scented the the whole house?

My mother suffered a stroke several years ago that paralyzed her left side and put her in a wheelchair. Since then, she hasn’t been able to cook or bake—her favorite means of creative expression and of giving to others—that she misses still. But the stroke didn’t take away her enjoyment of eating, sweets especially.

My mother loves music, too, especially the music of her day, the crooners and Big Band sounds of the 40s and 50s. I remember coming home to find my mother washing the kitchen floor on hands and knees (“The only way to get floors really clean”) as she sang along to the music on the radio. She sang a lot, and we learned the songs from her. The best birthday gift I ever gave her was to take her to see the revived Glenn Miller Band when it played in Albuquerque a few years ago. She hardly took her eyes off the performers the whole time, and she sang along softly to many of the songs.

I'm getting long-winded here, so I’ll stop. My intention wasn’t to write her biography, and I fear I’ve given a very one-dimensional view of her in order to focus on some of her gifts and talents. Like many mothers and daughters, our relationship has been difficult at various times in our past. She, unlike I, is not a saint. (Just a little humor, Mom. I couldn't resist. :-) But when I look back on all she's accomplished in her life, I’m reminded of the New Testament parable of the loaves and fishes (see verses 32-39). Certainly she has taken—and continues to take—the little she has received from life and turned it into a sustaining feast for us, her multitude of children.

2008-05-10T08:38:00.009-06:00

One day this past week—or was it the week before?—a ceremony for handing out diplomas to students who had completed their language studies at the Centro de Idiomas was held at the school. After the diplomas were given out, the festivities began. A large band from the Universidad de Veracruz, assembled at the front of the largest salon in the school, began playing salsa music for the assembled students, teachers, and administrators.

I had been invited to attend, but I ducked into the faculty computer room to finish some work. I had a sneaking suspicion that if I went to hear the music, I would be invited to dance, something I have been hesitant to do here because I don’t know the dance steps to salsa and other kinds of Latin music. But I was curious to see what was going on in the salon, and the music was great. So I stepped inside and took a chair near the door.

There must have been about ten members of the band, two of them women who danced and sang. No one in the audience was dancing until a couple of teachers pushed back some chairs to make room, and they began to dance, some pressing students to dance with them and get the ball rolling. And sure enough, in no time, another teacher asked me to dance. I tried to resist, but there was none of that. Everyone at the school seems to want to make sure I have the full experience of Mexico, and that definitely includes dancing.

So I danced with several other teachers, thinking all the while, “Would that I had been so popular back in dear old Clayton High School!” back in the 'sixties. The music was fast and loud, easy to dance to (in my fashion), and I even enjoyed it. But after about fifteen minutes, I left the salon and went back to work. Still, I was glad I’d danced, recalling the advice from a song my daughter Shelley gave me a few years back:

When you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
[Hear the song and see the video on YouTube.]

Have I mentioned before that most Mexicans love to dance? I’ve seen them dance on the sidewalk as they pass by a store with music blaring from speakers pointed streetward. I’ve seen them hum to themselves in offices and hallways to accompany their spontaneous urges to dance. I’ve seen them dance in the city parks and plazas and at home. Young and old dance here, and dancing seems to erupt whenever music does.

2008-04-03T19:47:00.009-06:00

My Albuquerque friend Peggy Roberts came to visit me here in Xalapa on her vacation. She arrived last Wednesday, March 26, so she and I were able to do some traveling before I started back to school yesterday after a two-and-a-half-week break for spring vacation.

Today we walked around the Cerro (meaning hill—or, in this case, an extinct volcano) de Macuiltépetl that stands in the middle of the city of Xalapa. In the photo here, Peggy is standing in front of a sundial located at the top of the hill. (Click on the photo to enlarge it and see what time it was when I took the picture.)

After our walk, we went to the La Estancia de Los Tecahuetes, a restaurant, for a wonderful meal and margaritas.

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Last Sunday morning, Peggy and I took a bus to Papantla (pronounced Pah-PAHNT-lah) to see El Tajín (Tah-HEEN) , an extensive ruin with a number of pyramids, including the renowned Pirámide de Los Nichos, shown here. As its name implies, it has many niches—365 to be exact—built into its four sides.

El Tajín is hedged around by a forest of green and flowering trees. As we walked the length of this village of pyramids, we found shade under trees growing here and there along the way. For me, the green lushness of the vegetation made visiting this site especially pleasurable—added to the pleasure of marveling at the unique arquitecture and speculating about the long-ago builders and inhabitants of the place.

Peggy and I stayed two nights in the small city of Papantla, trying the local food, touring the mercados, and walking the hilly streets. One of our favorite places to eat was the Plaza Pardo Restaurant, which has wonderful fish dishes and overlooks Papantla's central plaza, as shown here. (Peggy is toasting you with her chelada).

On Monday night after dinner, we walked up a steep hill in the middle of town to see this statue of a volador at the top. Papantla is noted for its voladores and for its excellent vanilla, which comes from an orchid grown in the area.

You can read here about the voladores and the supposed origin of their ritual performed high in the air.

2008-03-09T18:25:00.008-06:00

Here’s my view when I open my front door—geraniums blooming in the passageway that leads from my door to the stairs that take me down to the first floor and out the gates of my apartment building.

The door and windows you see opposite my door belong to the office of an acupuncturist. Here in Xalapa’s centro, homes, apartments, stores and offices sit side by side or one above the other, a jumble of commercial and domestic spaces.
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On February 2, Margarita, Joaquin and Miriam took me—as well as Elena and her daughter Gisela, whom I met then for the first time—to a small city called Tlacotalpan (pronounced—with difficulty—as tlah-coh-TALL-pahn) for the celebration of the Dia de la Candelaria.

Tlacotalpan is a colorful city that was declared a World Heritage City by the United Nations in 1995. It celebrates the Dia de la Candelaria in a big way over several days—with the running of the bulls through the streets, performances by jaraneros, musicians who play small guitar-like instruments called jaranas, and a procession of the statue of the Virgin from the church to the river, where a boat carries it along the river and thence back to the church. In addition, the center of town is filled with stands and stalls where artisans sell their wares.

By the way, you can see and hear a You-Tube video from the Candelaria fiesta last year that demonstrates the size and sound of jaranas here: http://video.aol.com/video-detail/guanabana-el-butaquito/267964436

2008-03-08T09:24:00.006-07:00

I was walking along a Xalapa street the other day when I heard perfect Spanish being spoken in a wee little voice by a wee little girl walking hand in hand with her mother. I was amazed at her command of Spanish while I, on the other end of the age spectrum, struggle so hard to attain it. It’s disconcerting to know that I will probably never reach her current fluency and correctness.

Still, I enjoy learning this language—it’s one of my great pleasures here in México—and poco a poco, I find myself able to understand more and more of what I hear and read, and my spoken Spanish is definitely improving.

--
I’ve been meaning to write about an experience I had at the end of January when Luz del Carmen Rivas invited me to join her and her husband Manuel and two sons—Manuel the younger and Eduardo—at their cabin in the country outside of Xalapa on a Saturday afternoon.

Luz is the director of the Universidad Veracruzana’s five Centros de Idiomas (Language Centers) and the related Centros de Auto-Accesso (Self-Access Centers) located in five different locations around the state of Veracruz.

Cabin” is too rustic a word for the charming two-story house where Luz and her family spend their weekends. The upstairs is one large bedroom with several beds, a hammock strung up in the middle of the room, and a massage table in an alcove in one corner. The downstairs, too, consists of one large open room divided into areas for the kitchen, dining area and living room, with lots of windows all around to let in the sun.

On the front porch, a chair-hammock hangs invitingly, while the porch on one side of the cabin leads to an outdoor kitchen with a large grill. The day I was there, beans were cooking in a tall clay pot placed on the grill, and there Manuel set himself to the task of grilling chicken, beef, and sausage for the afternoon meal.

Meanwhile, Luz started making tortillas on the comal inside the house. A comal is a flat pan for cooking tortillas, and Luz’s reminded me of a large oblong pancake griddle, which was heated by two gas burners below it. Sons Manuel and Eduardo also helped prepare the meal. I stood by watching, visiting and drinking a chelada, my new favorite drink consisting of lime juice and cold beer served in a glass rimmed with lime and salt. I was impressed by how round and tasty Luz’s tortillas were—and by the fact that she makes them herself.

When everything was ready, we sat down to a meal made especially delicious by the lively conversation and laughter around the table. I was touched by the show of affection between parents and sons and their obvious pleasure in spending time together at the end of the week. Luz tells me they go to their cabin nearly every weekend to get away, relax, and be together.

Spending time with Luz and Manuel and their family gave me another clear example of how Mexicans cherish and make time for their families—and how they generously include others in their warm circle.

2008-02-19T18:00:00.007-07:00

At 7 o'clock last Tuesday morning, February 12, I was awakened by what I first thought was a strong wind causing the wooden door of my apartment to rattle and bang against its jamb. But then, when my bed began to sway slightly from side to side, I realized I was feeling an earthquake.

I don’t do my best thinking when I first wake up, so I continued to lie in bed instead of getting up and making for the door. And it turned out that the earthquake’s epicenter, which registered 6.4 on the Richter scale, was located far away in the state of Chiapas, so there was no danger or damage done here in the center of the state of Veracruz. I heard the door rattling for about 30 seconds and felt the swaying for about 20 seconds--and then it was over.

2008-01-20T14:08:00.002-07:00

Last weekend, I gazed on this 500-year-old tree, a fig, in one of the gardens of El Lencero, an hacienda (the h is not pronounced in Spanish) that was once owned by México’s most-elected and justly reviled president, Santa Anna, of the Alamo fame.

Imagine! When this tree was a seedling, Cortez had not yet arrived in México to begin his conquest of the Aztec empire. Moctezuma, Aztec ruler was in power or soon to be.

I visited El Lencero with Cece Daniels, a Fulbright teacher living in Mexico City this year, and Margarita, who offered to be our guide. Miriam, her 10-year-old daughter, came along, too.

Taking photos of the interior of the hacienda is prohibited, but you can see some on this website.

Cece arrived for a visit by bus on Friday, Jan. 11, and left in the afternoon on Sunday. During the time she was here, we covered a lot of territory in Xalapa and nearby.

On Saturday, we took a bus to Xico and from there walked a couple of kilometers to the Texolo waterfall. The cobbled road was lined on both sides with banana and coffee trees.

As we walked along the path toward the falls, I was amazed to hear someone holler my name several times, and then I saw Elsa Malpica, another English teacher at the Centro de Idiomas, waving at me from a faraway observation deck. We soon met up with her and her two handsome sons and took a few photos of the river before Cece and I decided to head back, thinking that if we hurried we'd have time to get to El Lencero before it closed.

But on more careful thought, we realized that we wouldn’t have time to take a bus back to Xalapa and from then on to El Lencero in the opposite direction, so we changed our plans and took a bus to nearby Coátepec for a leisurely late lunch and a look around before going back to Xalapa.

Coatepec is the heart of coffee growing in the state of Veracruz, and we came across many coffee houses while we ambled about. But the place that most captured our interest was a place whose coffee house led to a restaurant in a courtyard full of flowers, flowering trees and bushes, and a fountain.

Here, in the Coffino Caffe & Restaurant, Cece and I had a tasty lunch--I had espaguetti verde--"green spaghetti" and Cece had carne asado a tampico (I think that's what it was called)--and we both had cheladas—cold beer poured over lime juice (about 2 jiggers) and served in a frosty mug with a salted rim. I’m not much of a beer drinker, but I have to say I really enjoyed that chelada; I found it much tastier and more refreshing than plain ol’ beer.

Cece explained to me that, in Mexico City, chelada contains picante sauce whereas michelada doesn’t—but just the opposite was true at the Coffino, where the michelada had the hot sauce. Cece advises asking before ordering: Which contains the hot sauce here--the chelada or the michelada?

After lunch and a look around Coatepec's center, we took the bus back to Xalapa, cleaned up, and went to La Casona del Beaterio, a restaurant where we ate with Margarita, her friend Sylvia, and Miriam and then listened to a musical group play traditional Mexican music. I liked the lead singer’s voice so much, I bought his CD: “Elfego Villegas.”

On Sunday after visiting El Lencero hacienda, we took the bus to Xalapa’s Museo de Antropología, which is known especially for its fine collection of Olmec heads. (View this website to learn just how advanced the Olmecs were.)

Here's my crude translation of the inscription (written by Agustín Acosta Lagunes, a former governor of the state of Veracruz) at the entrance of the museum: “This is the root of your history, your cradle and your altar. Hear the silent voice of Mexico’s oldest culture, perhaps that of the mother civilization of our continent. The Olmecs changed rain into harvests, sun into a calendar, rock into sculpture, cotton into cloth, wanderings into commerce, hills into thrones, jaguars into religion and men into gods.”

We also made a quick dash to the Pinacoteca Diego Rivera to see what we thought would be paintings by Rivera but turned out to be paintings of Xalapa and other places in Veracruz as rendered by many different artists, including one by Rivera.

Before Cece took the bus back to Mexico City, we ate lunch with Margarita and Miriam at the Mesón de Alférez. Then Cece took a taxi to CAXA, the bus station in Xalapa, to catch the bus back to Mexico City.

Cece, I hope you come back! I enjoyed your visit and the time we spent touring around.

2008-01-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

Confetti on my pillow when I got up this morning—mementoes of last night’s New Year’s Eve celebration at Margarita and Isabel’s parents’ home.

At midnight, we ate 12 grapes to ensure good fortune in each of the coming months. I was only able to get down seven of them before the clock stopped chiming, so I can expect rocky times in 2008—kind of like 2007 and all the years before that. Así es la vida.

After that came cohetes, firecrackers, but these—safe enough for 10-year-old Miriam to light—ignited like sparklers when we lit them and threw them into the street, and they didn't make any noise. But we could see the plumes of other celebrators' fireworks shooting into the sky overhead and hear their great booms.

And then Doña Guille, Isabel and Margarita’s mother, brought out a basket of eggs and passed them around. I watched as others threw them up to hit the ceiling. I didn’t quite understand, so Doña Guille cracked an egg over my head to show me that it contained confetti. Ahhhh! So then I cracked mine over her head.

Isabel explained how the eggs are emptied, washed, and dried, and then the shells are filled with confetti from the same hole used to remove the liquid part of the eggs. A bit of paper is glued over the hole to keep the confetti in, and the eggs are sometimes decorated to become lovely little confetti dispensers. (You can find step-by-step instructions here.) Isabel said that they're sometimes filled with flour and used in egg fights (similar, I suppose, to the snowball fights my brothers and I would have against the Cowger kids when we were growing up in the little town of Park River, North Dakota).

The evening had begun with conversation over antojitos (appetizers) and ponche (a sweet spiced tea made from dried fruits) and rompope (a rum-infused drink similar to eggnog). Later, we sat down to a dinner with all manner of delicious dishes beginning with pasta in green sauce and ending with fruit salad and a mocha cake, savoring pork and little garlicky red potatoes in between.

Around 11pm, Miriam won her appeal for piñatas, so we all took turns trying to break two of them and then scramble for the candy that rained down.

At the end of the evening, Isabel drove the two guests—her Tia Rosa and me—home. After dropping off Tia Rosa, she took me home the long way so that we (Margarita and Miriam went with us) could see the holiday lights in the center of the city. She stopped near the cathedral so that I could take photos of the nativity scene and the huge Christmas tree nearby.

And as I walked up the steps to my apartment, I could hear loud dance music, shouts, and laughter coming from the apartment building just a stone’s throw from mine. It sounded like a lot of people were having a lot of fun. The music and the party hadn't stopped when I fell asleep--confetti still in my hair--at 2:00 on this first morning of new year.
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I’m listening to Mahalia Jackson sing gospel music this morning; makes me want to dance and shout. I’ve subscribed to Yahoo Music, so I can listen to any kind of music I want when the spirit moves me. Nice, except Yahoo doesn’t have a lot of Mexican music. Yesterday was Bob Dylan day; I listened to his songs all afternoon.

2007-12-30T11:56:00.000-07:00

Of all things, I forgot my camera when I went home for Christmas, but luckily my son Shane and my (ex)daughter-in-law Carrie took some photos for me to share with others here in Xalapa and you out there in the blogosphere.

Shane and Diana, his significant other of many years, met me at the Albuquerque Sunport and took me directly to Cervantes, a nearby New Mexican restaurant, so that I could have New Mexican red chile, which is a different kind of chile from those I've eaten in México. As you can see from the photo, the restaurant was all decked out for Christmas.

While in Albuquerque, I stayed at my house. My good friend Sharon and her dog Allee are living there in my absence and taking care of my house and my cat Fred. (Sharon is trying to sell her house, but she could hardly have picked a worse time, given the housing slump in Albuquerque and the U.S. in general.)

I visited my mom everyday while I was in Albuquerque, and she and I spent Christmas Eve with my brother David and his wife Carmen, their sons Keegan and Kyle, and their wives Lyn and Elena and kids. It was so fun to watch them--Maiyah, Adan ("Boogie") and Layla open their presents, and--in the case of Adan and Layla--quickly return to playing with cups, glasses, and other simple things.

Two days after I arrived home, I drove down to Las Cruces--a 3-hour-and-15-minute trip south on I-25--to see my kids and grandkids there:

My daughter Shelley, her husband Brooks, and their kids: Chris, Rick, Clay, and Haley. I didn't get a photo of Shelley, Brooks, or Rick, but here's a photo of me with Chris, Clay, and Haley.
My son Sean and his kids Bryan and Caitlin.
My former daughter-in-law Carrie and her husband Richard Rosales and their five kids, who include--besides Bryan and Caitlin--Andrew, J.D., and new baby Miguel ("Mikey").

Thanks for taking and sending me these pictures, Carrie! Click on them to enlarge them.

2007-12-30T11:01:00.000-07:00

I flew home to Albuquerque on December 19 and returned home here in Xalapa on Friday, December 28. Since both flights—to and from—took a whole day, it was a whirlwind trip but warming because I was able to spend time with my mom, my kids, and my grandkids.

On the first leg of my return flight to Xalapa, between Albuquerque and Dallas/Ft. Worth, I met Muffet Foy Cuddy, my seatmate, who was on her way to Iowa as a volunteer to help NM Governor Bill Richardson in his bid for the Democratic presidential nomination. Muffet is chief of programs in the NM Department of Transportation and a belly dancer by avocation who will be going to Egypt soon for further study. It was fun talking with her.

Then as I was waiting in the Mexico City airport for my flight to Veracruz, a woman came up to me and said something like, “We meet again.” I recognized her as my seatmate during my first flight from Mexico City to Veracruz back in August. Teresa—Doctora Teresa Morales Guzmán—a researcher in neurobiology, lives in Querétero and travels to Veracruz to visit her family several times a year.

If we believed in fate, we would surely think this second meeting was fated: After all, what are the odds of running into someone you know in a city of 23 million people? We met only because the airline rerouted my flight through Mexico City instead of Monterrey, as stated on my itinerary; and because Teresa chose the same flight after vacillating for several days over the date and time.

Teresa and I weren’t seatmates this time, but we were able to visit a bit before we had to board the plane. She told me that she has been reading my blog from time to time, so now, Teresa, if you read this entry, please let me know if I’ve gotten any of my information about you wrong here.

2007-12-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

The post below was written on December 4:

I’ve been under the weather for more than three weeks now with a malady that started out as a sore throat, which soon went away but then manifested as head and chest congestion, and finally morphed into a cough that won’t go away. I’ve solicited—from colleagues and students—and tried all kinds of cough remedies: herbal tea for cough, marshmallows melted in hot milk, Broncolin cough drops, lemon juice and honey dissolved in hot water, and Histocil cough syrup. And I’m still coughing.

Now, however, the coughing mostly bothers me at night, waking me up so I don’t sleep well and am tired the next day.

Yesterday I had finally decided to see a doctor when Pery mentioned that I could get antibiotics at the pharmacy without a doctor’s prescription. “Hey, that’s right!” I thought, recalling that here in Mexico antibiotics can be bought over the counter!

And so, dismissing the adage that rang in my head—"A physician who treats himself has a fool for a patient”—I went to the internet and investigated the names of the two antibiotics and the generic version that Pery told me her husband and daughter had gotten from their doctors for symptoms similar to mine.

I found a website (in Spanish) that contains information on prescription medications in Mexico and read the indications, contraindications, dosage, and warnings for on all three drugs. Then I went to the pharmacy and asked for the cheapest one, which was the generic, for which I paid about $25.

I will take Sinufin twice a day for seven days, and by then I expect to be cured of this cursed cough and back to my jolly old self in time to enjoy the season of the Jolly Old Elf.

For any ESL teachers and students who might be reading this blog: Here’s a version of “The Night Before Christmas” you might find useful for practicing reading comprehension in English.

And tomorrow is (oy vey!) my 61st birthday. Pery organized a get-together at her house last Friday that she said was a celebration marking the end of the blogging workshop, which ended the previous Friday, but this get-together turned out to be a celebration of my birthday as well.

Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” to me and then “Las Mañanitas” (click on the link to read the lyrics and listen to the song) before we sat down at the table to enjoy pambasos, ensalada de frutas, gelatina, and a wonderful marble cake with cocoanut in the filling and lemon in the frosting. Oo-oo-oooh! It was delicious!

I had planned to go later to see a performance given by a musical group that includes a student of mine, Nelly, who dances and plays la tortuga, but as we were getting ready to leave, someone started dancing, and soon others were dancing, and finally even I was dancing.

And so I experienced what I’d heard about Mexican get-togethers—that people start dancing spontaneously and then, before you know it, it’s dawn. Well, our party ended much earlier than that, but it was so much fun to enjoy the music and watch everyone dance the salsa, merengue, mambo, and danzón.
--
December 9, 2007
I have taken half the medication so far and am coughing much less, but I still feel tired and pretty energy-less. I hope I get my pep back soon.

More about my birthday...
Last Wednesday, on the actual day of my birthday, the office staff lined up to give me hugs when I arrived and to offer me felicitationes on my birthday. And before I left, I was called into the coordinator's office for a celebration that began with the staff and teachers' singing "Las Mañanitas" and was followed by cake and geletina and gorditas and more hugs.

An aside: Here in Xalapa, gelatina goes with cake like ice cream goes with cake in the U.S. And in my experience, the gelatin called for is something fancy, like mosaico de gelatina (jello mosaic), similar to what is seen in this picture. At first, I was surprised at this combination, but it's quite good and supplies the cold, creamy sweetness cake seems to call for. (Well, okay, it's we--not the cake--who call out it.)

And then, Margarita, Miriam, and Joaquín picked me up and took me to Coatepec for a birthday lunch at a charming restaurant called El Charco de la Rana (literally, the puddle of the frog) that specializes in trout. And that's what I had: trout in a delicious tamarind sauce. At the end of the meal, suddenly "Las Mañanitas" began to play over the sound system, and the mesero (waiter) brought me a piece of cheese cake with a candle in it.

I went through the motions of making a wish and blowing out the candle, but as I've been trying to explain, I already have my wish. I'm living it this moment, here in México.

2007-11-22T17:46:00.000-07:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

Today, Thursday, November 22, is just another workday here in Mexico. But this afternoon after our morning classes, Pery took me to a great restaurant--Estacion de Tecahuete (to be honest, I'm guessing about the name)--where we had a fine meal, and I called it Thanksgiving dinner.

And this Sunday and the Sunday after that, I'll be cooking Thanksgiving for some friends, so then I'll be able to enjoy turkey and dressing, cranberries and sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and gravy, apple pie and ice cream (I'm not a big pumpkin pie fan) and--best of all--leftovers the next day!

I have much to be thankful for this year. After the health of my family and friends, I am most thankful for being able to spend this year in Mexico.

If you're interested in knowing more about the history of Thanksgiving in the United States, you can read, see, and hear about it on the History.com website.

2007-11-18T09:47:00.000-07:00

I wrote the following entry last Sunday, November 9, but just now finished editing it:

This morning, as on every Sunday morning, I heard the deep voice of the newspaper vendor calling loudly in the street, “Diario! Diario!” Only it sounded like this, rendered in monotone: "Deee-Ahhh-riO! Deee-Ahhh-riO!"

In Xalapa, there are no self-serve newspaper stands where one can pick up a paper, nor can newspapers be bought at the 7-11 stores (called miscellaneas here) that dot nearly every block. Newspapers are sold at manned—or womaned—newspaper-and-magazine stands around the city, but there are none close to where I live.

During the week, I buy a newspaper or two—the Diario de Xalapa and the A-Z—at a stand near the school. On Sundays, I often buy one from the street vendor when his path and mine collide.

But this morning I heard his call at the ungodly hour of 9:15. I’d only been up for 15 minutes, was still in my pajamas, and had had only a few sips of coffee, so I wasn’t in any shape to run down the stairs and chase after him to buy a paper.

It doesn’t really matter though: I have yesterday’s paper that I’ve barely touched. Reading in Spanish takes me a long time, but day by day, poco a poco, I’m reading faster and having to look up fewer words.

And I have to say I’m impressed by the frankness of many of the editorials and articles I’ve been reading related to the politics and political figures here in Mexico. Some journalists don’t pull any punches in pointing out corruption and unseemly behavior on the parts of politicians.

For example, headlines in the national section of the A-Z for Nov. 9 pointed out that “Secretarios atienden emergencia entre lujos” (Secretaries [of governmental departments] attend to emergency in luxury). The accompanying article showed photos of two high-level federal government officials who had traveled to the state capital of Tabasco to help bring aid to the flooded state while they themselves stayed at five-star hotels, enjoying canapés, wine and other luxuries, which the article went into great detail in describing. Meanwhile, it was pointed out that many of the flood victims were suffering without water or food.

Another editorial blamed the governors of Tabasco and Chiapas, the two states suffering from the recent flooding, for not having used funds available to them before the fact to have prevented the flooding in the first place. (The flooding in Villahermosa, the capital of the state of Tabasco, has been compared to the flooding in New Orleans after Hurrican Katrina.)

So I was startled to read a recent report by the French-based nonprofit organization Reporters Without Borders that said in 2006 Mexico was the second-most-dangerous country in which to be a journalist, after Iraq, based on the fact that nine journalists had been murdered and three disappeared here last year. But the report says the danger to journalists comes not from a repressive government but from drug cartels that don’t want their activities brought to light by the media.

2007-11-08T19:29:00.000-07:00

Today I went to one of my favorite restaurants, El Restarancito de Mamá Belem, and had something new on the menu: ropa vieja. Translated into English, ropa vieja means “old clothes.”

"Why that name?" I wondered. One look and I knew. Here’s a photo to help you understand, too.

Ropa vieja at Mamá Belem’s is made from shredded chicken and beef held together with egg and some tomatoes and onion thrown in for flavor.

What you see here on my plate is the ropa vieja--edged with fried platanos (bananas, which are grown here)--and some refried black beans with cheese sprinkled on top. It came with piping hot fresh corn tortillas and one of several aguas (“waters”) that customers are served there. Today, I had jamaica [pronounced hah-MIKE-ah in Spanish], which is an infusion of jamaica flowers (hibiscus) to which sugar is added. Here’s a recipe you can use to make yourself some agua de jamaica. It’s really very good.

This main dish was preceded by tortilla chips (called totopos here); a salsa of jalapeños, onion, and cilantro; and some dinner rolls. I was also served a wonderful soup—sopa de fideos (somewhat similar to Lipton chicken noodle soup only with a mild tomato flavor and real chicken in it)—and a small portion of coditos con crema, or elbow macaroni in a cream sauce (codo means “elbow” in Spanish).

And after I’d finished my entrée, I was given a tiny portion of dessert: a layered gelatin concoction, the kind that is very popular here in Xalapa and perhaps throughout Mexico. I actually like the small portions at Mama Belem’s because I like a little something sweet to end a meal, and the few bites served at Mama Belem’s are just enough. I always leave full but not stuffed.

2007-11-03T20:13:00.000-06:00

Last Thursday, November 1, I stopped to look at some altares set up under the portico of the Palacio Estatal (“state palace” of Veracruz state) after going to the cajero (ATM) in downtown Xalapa so that I could pay my rent, which was due that day--more about this later. Crowds of people were moving from altar to altar to view the differences between the altars from different cities in the state of Veracruz.

At one point, I encountered an old man holding out his hat, asking for money from passersby. He managed to maintain his dignity nevertheless, which showed in his calm demeanor and the way he looked people in the eye as they approached him. I stopped and began looking for coins at the bottom of the large canvas bag I was using for a purse. I fished and fished for my coin purse but couldn’t find it. As I was fishing, I assured him I had money to give him but it was taking me some time to find it. Then the old man said to me, more or less: “No te preocupes. A veces se puede, y otras veces, no se puede.” (“Don’t worry. Sometimes one is able [to give], and at other times, one is not.”)

At that point, I gave up looking and thanked him for his understanding, walking away feeling that he had shared his abundance with me.
--

Directly across from the Palacio Estatal where the Día de los Muertos altars were displayed is Xalapa’s cathedral, whose congregation is deep in celebration of a former bishop, Rafael Guízar y Valencia, whose body is entombed in a crypt within the cathedral and who was beatified on January 29, 1995, by Pope John Paul II. Margarita tells me he is expected to be granted sainthood soon.

I mentioned above that I went to an ATM (automated teller machine, or cajero in Spanish) to draw out money to pay my rent. (I pay $400 US for a two-bedroom apartment here in Xalapa.) I discovered that I could only withdraw $3,000 pesos ($280 US) on a single day here in Mexico. I tried going to a cajero from a different bank, but I got the message that I'd already withdrawn my daily limit.

I ended up going to my landlady, Doña Atala, explaining to her daughter Samantha the problem I'd encountered, and paying my rent a day late.

2007-11-03T10:17:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I went with Margarita, Joaquin, Doña Tere, and Miriam to Naolinco to see how the people in this small city celebrate the Day of the Dead.

We went to the cemetery first and walked around the crowded grounds, observing the decorated graves and "houses" built over many of them. Many of the dead in Naolinco are well-housed, as you can see from this photo. The cemetery was full of people decorating their loved ones' graves and visiting with their neighbors who were there to do the same.

After that, we went to the downtown area and happened on a cultural center that had a great display of calaveras, Catrinas, and altares.

Here's a photo of me with La Catrina, a female calavera dressed elegantly with a Victorian hat. (I only pretended to take her hand. I'm not interested in taking a walk with her any time soon.)

After that, we went to a restaurant where I had some great enchiladas. Here's a photo of the large altar located in the dining room where we ate.

2007-11-02T22:10:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I spent the afternoon at Pery’s mother’s house. (Pery is my Fulbright mentor at the Centro de Idiomas here in Xalapa.) She invited me to join her and her mother in making tamales for El Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), November 2.

Making tamales is definitely not a project undertaken lightly. They take a lot of time, effort and skill to make but—boy, oh, boy!—they’re worth it! And Doña Estela, Pery’s mother, is a good one to learn from because of her many years of experience and her high culinary standards. She said she doesn’t make tamales often any more, but she really went whole hog yesterday, making four different kinds with the help of Pery and her household helper Nay and my meager contribution:

tamales de chile con pollo (chicken in a delicious sauce made of several different kinds of chiles, tomato, and other ingredients);

tamales de queso (two different kinds of cheese, in this case) with epizote and chiles jalapeños;

tamales con frijoles gordos (similar to lima beans), pepinos (pumpkin seeds heated in a pan until they puff up and turn golden), y cilantro; and

tamales de verduras (vegetables that in this case included carrots, green beans, potatoes, and chayote).

It was such a pleasure to spend time with Doña Estela in her kitchen, watching her work, listening to her explanations of how tamales should be made, and basking in her warmth and her dry sense of humor. Pery clearly takes after her.

The whole complex process of making tamales reminded me of preparing Thanksgiving dinner: the women working in the kitchen (it lacked the men watching American football on TV); the wonderful smells emanating from pots and pans covering every burner of the stove; and the chopping, shredding, beating, cooking, steaming, and assembling of ingredients into wonderful dishes that we wait the whole year for.

El Día de los Muertos is about more than just tamales, of course. I encourage you to read this webpage to learn about the idea behind El Día de los Muertos in México. As it explains:

The celebration goes through the night, when ‘throughout the cemetery, there is a grand family reunion of huge extended families, alive and dead, as one by one, through stories, memories and dreams, the dead return. On this night, those who wait realize the importance of living to be well remembered, working to be well respected, and loving to be well missed.’

I especially love the idea that the aromas of the tamales, chocolate, and other favorite foods and drinks of deceased loved ones tempt and guide their spirits back to their families for this one day of the year. These foods and drinks are placed on altares erected in most homes and many businesses. In this photo, you can see the altar in Doña Estela's home. (Pery told me she was a little dismayed that her niece had included a border with a Halloween motif--jack-o-lanterns--above the altar, but her niece failed to see a problem. Speaking of Halloween, I think the Hollywood spin on Halloween as a night of terror has changed the character of that U.S. holiday in unsavory ways since I was a kid back in the mists of time.)

I think this is a holiday my gringo family could easily embrace because we love our father, Murray King—who died at 54 in 1974—so much. If we could entice his gentle, humorous spirit to be with us even more vividly on this day than he is on other days, what wouldn’t we do? I for one would build an altar in the Mexican tradition and place on it his favorite foods (which, to be honest, only our mother could make) and drink and lots of books.

Ah, and then there are our grandparents and other dear relatives and friends we don’t want to forget and would like to draw closer to us.

I can see why this holiday is so well loved and carefully observed by Mexicans.

2007-11-01T10:37:00.000-06:00

I've been to Teotihuacan [tay-oh-tee-whah-KAHN] to visit the Sun and the Moon--pyramids, that is. I took this photo of the Pyramid of the Sun in the background from a "plateau" on the Pyramid of the Moon. (Click the photo to see a larger view of this scene.)

We--the group of Fulbright teachers living in Mexico this year who met for the previous three days (Oct. 29-31) in Mexico City--climbed both pyramids on Tuesday. I can still feel the effects of the climb in my leg muscles.

Before we went to the site, we were given a short demonstration of how indigenous people used--and still use--the agave plant to make pulque, mezcal, tequila (a particular kind of mezcal), needles, thread, paper, fiber for making clothing and for other uses, and I forget what else.

I was fascinated to learn about this versatile plant and the ingenuity of the indigenous people who made use of every part of it. I have an agave plant in my front yard in Albuquerque, and now I appreciate it even more.

2007-10-20T09:31:00.000-06:00

Saturday, October 20, 2007.
Weather: 63°F 17°C) and cloudy in Xalapa

A leisurely morning: I slept past 8, made myself some coffee, and sat down to get caught up on my blogging.

Last Sunday, October 14, I went with Margarita and Miriam to the Teatro del Estado (state theatre) to see a show of folkloric dance by the Ballet Folklórico de la Universidad Veracruzana in celebration of its 43 anniversary. The show, “Homenaje a Veracruz” (homage to Veracruz), featured folk and modern dances from several regions of Veracruz, a state that stretches north and south along the Gulf of Mexico.

The range of dances spanned eons as well as geographical regions, depicting dances and costumes from prehispanic, colonial, and modern times. The production was so well done—directed, staged, costumed, and danced—that it reminded me of Broadway productions I’ve seen.

One of the dancers, Elsa Malpica Muñoz, is an English teacher at the Centro de Idiomas. In fact, she was the one who told me about this event, and I’m so glad she did. As I watched, I felt like I was getting a Mexican history-and-culture lesson in the most enjoyable way--through dance and music.

One of the dances that most fascinated me was the “Danza de los moros y españoles”—dance of the Moors and the Spanish. As near as I could tell, the dance reenacts fighting between the Moors and the Christians in Spain. The “Moors” and the “Spanish” dancers clacked long sticks together in ritual sword-fighting—art imitating life and transforming it into beauty.

The dance of “la bruja” (witch) was particularly beautiful and--well...bewitching--to watch: the lights were turned down, and the women in long white jarocha dresses danced gracefully by the ghostly light of candles balanced on their heads and held in their hands.

2007-10-13T17:36:00.002-06:00

Last Friday night, Oct. 5, I went with Margarita and a friend of hers, Genoveva, to an outdoor show of Cuban dance put on by a Xalapa dance troupe, Xalhabana, and then we went out to eat at an Italian restaurant whose name I now forget.

Veva is a woman of many talents—a businesswoman who also has a law degree but prefers business to a law practice. She has been in the car windshield business (originally her father’s) for over 20 years and more recently has started a car rental business. I enjoyed talking with her and hearing her many stories.

After I got home, Margarita called and asked if I wanted to go Veracruz her, Miriam, and Veva, her two sons the next day. I said yes, of course. I hadn’t spent time in Veracruz except to arrive at the airport there back in August.

So at 9:30 the next morning, Veva picked me up in her van. Her sons Ariel, 15, and Bruno, 11, were in at the back, Margarita and Miriam in the middle seat, and I sat in front with Veva on the way to Veracruz. The kids watched a movie on the van's drop-down screen while the adults talked. Veva knows quite a bit of English and is interested in learning more, so we talked in a mixture of English and Spanish.

Our first stop was at the aquarium, which Veva told me is one of the top aquariums in Latin America. (Its website is impressive, too.) As soon as we got out of the van, the sultry air of Veracruz enveloped us. What a difference between the heat of Veracruz and the temperate climate of Xalapa! The aquarium, however, was air-conditioned.

Next, we went to the fortress of San Juan de Ulua. I was really impressed, amazed, and appalled by it and its long history. It was built in 1565 and served as a fort, a customhouse, and—in the 1800s—a prison that must have been like hell on earth. It was also the site of the filming of some parts of Romancing the Stone in 1984, according to Wikipedia.

We took a tour that included dungeons and prison cells that once held some of Mexico’s worst criminals and many political prisoners, including Benito Juárez. One prisoner seemed well-known to the others on the tour: Chucho el Roto, a Mexican Robin Hood in the 1800s who eventually escaped.

I can’t imagine how horrible life must have been for prisoners there. For one thing, the cells and dungeons were dark, with elongated slits in the rock walls for ventilation. And they were dank. Rain seeped through the ceilings and walls, and at times the sea rose, causing flooding in the cells themselves. (You can click on the dark photo I've posted here and barely make out the stalactites growing from the ceilings--and there are stalagmites rising up to meet them on the rock floor.)

In some dungeons, “Chinese” water torture was inflicted on prisoners shackled to the walls. And I can only imagine the rats and insects that must have lurked there. Our tour guide told us that at one time, the moats around the prison were stocked with sharks, eliminating the need for a cemetery when prisoners died there.

After the tour, we went to a restaurant in Boca del Rio, a small city adjacent to Veracruz, and there we had seafood. I had some tasty fish while Veva and her sons had large shrimp cocktails. I think Margarita had chicken, and Miriam had her favorite meal: papas y pollo—French fries and chicken. A musical group was playing tropical music when we arrived, and from time to time, they would rest, and other musicians and Jarocho dancers dressed in their traditional white garb would stroll among the diners and perform.

We left the restaurant and headed for the beach, or rather, for the promenade along the beach where we joined hundred of Veracruzanas sauntering there. It was a great way to walk off our food and to people-watch at the same time.

Here's a sculpture that I admired--but I didn't get the name of the piece or of the sculpture, I'm sorry to say. If anyone knows the name, please let me know.

Our last stop in Veracruz was at La Parroquia, a popular restaurant close to the beach where we had drinks. Veva, an avowed coffee lover, had cafe lechero served ala Parroquia: strong coffee served in a glass by one waiter and filled up with hot milk by another waiter--called to the table by tapping one's spoon on the glass. This waiter came with a pitcher of steaming milk and poured with a flourish, beginning high above the cup, bringing the pitcher down toward the lip of the glass, and then raising it up, creating lots of foam in the glass. It's quite a daring performance, maybe more daring for the customer than the waiter. At any rate, Veva said it was wonderful coffee. Since it was evening, I declined coffee in favor of bottled water, but I'll have to try it another time. I definitely want to return to La Parroquia and to Veracruz.

We left the restaurant around 8:00 p.m. and headed back to Xalapa, about an hour away, making one last stop for some ice cream. I had lime sherbet. And on the way back, I sat in the middle seat listening to Veva and Margarita talking and trying to keep up with their conversation.

All in all, it was a good day.

Oh, and in Veracruz I discovered something--thanks to a monument to Jose and his father Manuel Azueta--that I'd never learned in any of my history classes: that the U.S. attacked and occupied Veracruz for six months in 1914. Here's the United States' version, and here's another version of that event.

2007-10-11T20:04:00.000-06:00

I’ve gotten behind on my blogging! Here’s an entry I wrote last week:

Last Saturday, October 1, Margarita and Joaquin took Miriam, Doña Tere, and me to Naolinco (now-LINK-oh), a town of about 10,000 people located 20 miles from Xalapa (or so one website tells me although I thought the trip was longer than that--maybe because the mountain road taking us there curved and twisted so much.)

The countryside is beautiful between Xalapa and Naolinco, and I saw lots of dairy cows standing or lying in lush green pastures. As we traveled up the mountain, a light fog descended, and the air cooled. We passed through several smaller well-kept towns, Coacoazintla [kwah-kwah-SEENT-lah] for one, on our way.

When we got to Naolinco, we didn’t stop but went to the waterfall with a large viewing area on the outskirts of the town. But when we walked to the edge, we could see nothing but an impenetrable wall of whiteness. It reminded me of the white opaqueness of a North Dakota snow storm except that the temperature in Naolinco was balmy, not frigid. Clouds and fog utterly erased the view in front of us although we could hear the sound of the waterfalls—there are actually two of them—somewhere below us.

So to stall for time in the hope that the fog would lift, we got back into the car and took a little trip to a nearby village, San Miguel Aguasuelos, which is known for its light-colored pottery. We were told that there'd been a big fiesta the day before, which explained the dearth of pieces in the village gallery and store. But Maragarita, Joaquin, and I all bought a few things: I chose a jug-shaped flower vase and a clay crucifix. None of the pieces we saw was glazed, however, which makes me wonder if they hold water for any length of time.

Then we headed back to the waterfall--actually there are two of them--outside of Naolinco in hopes that the fog had lifted—and it had. Here are some photos of what we saw and of us.

After that, we all agreed we were hungry, and it turns out that Naolinco is a great place to eat. We stopped at a restaurant called Doña Josepfina adjacent to the town plaza. Luckily we got there before the rush because a half hour later, there wasn’t a table to be had.

I loved everything about this restaurant—the cut-paper decorations hanging from the ceiling; the large niche holding a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, adorned with fresh flowers, and, below it, a lighted candle; the arches of the large dining room; the musicians playing South American music (this Joaquin told me; I wouldn’t have known the difference) shortly after we arrived; and of course the food. I ordered sopa con garbanzos, a garbanzo bean soup—here’s a picture of it—and I believe I could eat that soup everyday for a month without tiring of it. Next, I had breast of chicken with mole, which arrived with a huge amount of rice. There was so much food—and the sauce was so rich, not to mention that I’d just downed a big bowl of soup—that in spite of its deliciousness (if this is a word), I could barely eat half and ended up taking most of it home.

After eating, we returned to the restaurant’s entrance where all kinds of candy and bread were sold, and we all bought some. Candy is one of the things Naolinco is known for.) I bought some dulces de leche in different flavors—lemon and chocolate turned out to be my favorites—but I ended up throwing them away a few days later because they were too sweet for me.

Then we walked to a nearby shopping mall and browsed, finding shop after shop of shoes, purses, belts, and other leather goods. Those dairy cows I saw en route to Naolinco will ultimately contribute to the leather economy here, for which the city is well-known. Joaquín told me that Naolinco has begun to suffer, however, from the influx of cheap Chinese imported shoes and leather goods. What a shame if this prosperous Mexican city ceases to prosper and the people of Naolinco who tan leather or make shoes, boots, belts, and purses or who sell them in their small shops lose their livelihood to globalization.

After our tour, we piled into the car and drove back to Xalapa. It was a lovely day.

2007-10-06T15:00:00.000-06:00

The Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta begn yesterday. In an email, my Fulbright Exchange partner, Isabel, told me she will be attending this weekend.

2007-10-06T12:52:00.000-06:00

Friday night, Oct. 5. Temperature: 18 degrees Celsius/ 64 degrees Fahrenheit

I hear rain falling on the roof, a lovely sound.

I got home late, close to 9 p.m. tonight. The blogging class I’m teaching to maestras y maestros at the Centro de Idiomas from 5 to 7 on Friday evenings ended early when the internet went down. We decided to take a break and see if internet access would be restored. (The coordinator, Miguel Angel Murrieta, has thoughtfully arranged for us to have coffee and cookies during our breaks.) And sure enough, the internet came back up briefly, giving us false hope, and then went down again. So we called it a day.

After that, I took a taxi from the school to the Chedraui supermercado closest to my apartment. When I emerged from the store about an hour later, the sidewalks and streets were wet. I don’t know if it had rained or if it was due to persistent chipi-chipi, the gentle drizzle that falls here, more a sprinkle or a mist than actual rain. I tried to catch another taxi home, not because I objected to walking but because I was heavy laden with groceries—my payday splurge—and my satchel of books that I carry to and from school each day.

But could I hail a taxi? No. In this city that has somewhere between 3,000 and 3,500 of them—countless of which passed me by as I trudged home—I couldn’t get a taxi because they were all taken by others. Only when I turned down my street, Guerrero, did two taxis appear with backseats empty. But it was too late by then. Ah, well. “All part of life’s rich pageantry,” as Inspector Clouseau would say.
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At noon today, there was a meeting of faculty and staff on the topics calidad and mejorar continuo—quality and continuous improvement. (Déjà vu all over again. CNM is using a similar quality perspective for its accreditation process.) I dropped into the meeting late and left early because I was preparing for my blogging class, but while I was there, I took these pictures.

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I was sick with a cold for three days this past week. I taught my classes, but on Tuesday and Wednesday, I left immediately afterward. I slept a lot, and today I feel cured.

Margarita—and other Mexicans—call this the season of contagion, la estación de contagio. The phrase has an ominous but somewhat romantic tone, bringing echoes of the winter of my discontent and one hundred years of solitude and love in the time of cholera.

Here in Xalapa, Margarita explained, September brings cooler weather—although the change has been barely perceptible to me so far—and sickness. And it's true: I counted five out of 16 students in my first class who were coughing and sneezing and blowing their noses along with me on Wednesday.
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Yesterday afternoon around 1:30 as I left the Centro de Idiomas for home, I saw a man sleeping on the street, stretched out full length close to the curb and adjacent to a portable stand where produce, herbs, and tortillas are sold. I assume he was one of the people who worked at the stand. I was amazed by the sight of him. I had to wonder(1) how could he sleep on the hard surface of the street? He didn’t seem drunk; his repose seemed deliberate, and the people sitting next to the stand seemed unperturbed by his presence or his slumber. (2) How did he dare fall asleep on the street knowing that pedestrians—let alone sleepers—are the targets of many taxistas and other drivers who seem hell-bent on scourging the streets of them? And (3) how could he rest while people walked past, beside, and around him?

I am always grateful to people like him whose behavior or appearance is so very different, in a harmless way, from what is normal, accepted, customary. I appreciate that they jerk me out of life's "terrible dailiness," and I admire their bravery, or bravado. I fondly remember the first time I saw a young punk-rocker sporting a pink 6-inch spiked mohawk and the time I saw an overweight middle-aged balding man waiting outside the Albuquerque Airport who was wearing Little Bo Peep garb, minus the bonnet and staff, lifting a hammy leg in white tights to rest his foot on a bench while he puffed on a cigar.

Maybe I like these people for the same reason I like mimes: they ask us to look at them. And they enterain us.

2007-10-06T11:41:00.000-06:00

I wrote this entry last Friday, September 28 but just got around to editing it today.
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When will I learn to take my camera with me wherever I go? I like to travel light when I can, but each time I’ve left my camera behind—as I did tonight—I’ve regretted it.

Margarita and I went for a cafecito tonight. We ended up at a new coffeehouse called La Naval where a Son Jarocho group called Yolpakih was playing, singing, and dancing. Our table was located on the left side of the five musicians—four young men and a young woman dressed in jarocho style—so we didn’t have a straight-on view of their performance, but we were close enough to hear the music well and observe their instruments, their joy and enthusiasm, and the frequency with which they set down one instrument and picked up another.

I was amazed when Margarita pointed out that the singer-guitar player closest to us had put down his guitar and begun playing the jawbone of a burro—the "jaw of an ass"! the same instrument the biblical Samson bragged about using to “kill a thousand men”—as a percussion instrument, striking a stick along the toothed edge of the jawbone. And what’s more—the young woman had picked up the polished shell of a tortoise and was playing it like a drum. (When I tried to research this instrument on Google, I found this website listing Latin American ethnic instruments that made me marvel at our human drive to make music with any means at hand.

The group played typical música veracruzana, including a traditional favorite that originated in Veracruz over 300 years ago: “La Bamba.” I like the idea that I now live in the place where this song originated—a song I’ve loved since I heard it on the radio sung by Ritchie Valens (aka Ricardo Valenzuela) when I was 11. My, it's been a long journey--from North Dakota to Veracruz, from that day nearly fifty years ago hearing Ritchie Valens’ top-40 version of “La Bamba” to tonight, sitting in a coffeehouse in Xalapa listening to Yolpakih’s version of the very same song.

An aside: I’ve felt oddly connected to this song and to Ritchie Valens, the Big Bopper and Buddy Holly since their deaths on February 3, 1959, ("The Day the Music Died") in an airplane crash as they flew from a gig in Clear Lake, Iowa, to another gig in Fargo, ND. My family had only recently moved from Mason City, Iowa—just 10 miles from Clear Lake—to Fargo, ND, when we heard the news of the crash. Being young, I marveled at this coincidence—as though these stars had tracked our migration and then fallen from the sky. (Yes, I was an adolescent; the world revolved around me and mine then. All the signs and wonders of the day pointed to me.)

Well, back to the son jarocho musicians. Not only did they sing and play a variety of instruments, the young woman and the lead singer also danced—dances that resembled flamenco to me because the dancers wore the same kind of shoes and stomped their heels.

After the son jarochos, a rock group began to play. We stayed for six or seven songs, and all of them were songs made popular by British or American groups of the 70s and 80s and were sung in English. (Music just won't stay put.)

And then we took a taxi home.

2007-09-27T20:11:00.000-06:00

I wrote the entry below soon after the Mexican Independence Day celebration but hadn’t managed to post it—and the accompanying photos—yet. But today, during a club de conversation—a one-hour session of conversation for which students of English sign up and attend as assigned by their teachers—I discovered that one of the participants, Abigail, is a drama student and a mime whom I saw perform on September 15 and who in fact I photographed and wrote about. And that is my motivation for finally posting the entry and photos below:

On Saturday, September 15, Margarita and her 9-year-old daughter Miriam picked me up at my apartment, and we walked down (and I do mean down) steep Clavijero Street to Parque Juárez, which was already crowded with people milling around or sitting on benches or standing in one of seven or eight different food lines to be served a variety of different dishes—courtesy of the state government of Veracruz.

We didn’t eat—I was still full from la comida I’d eaten at Pery’s—but we watched one of several mimes who drew large crowds in the park that evening. The mime we watched was a young woman dressed and coiffed like Marie Antoinette who had us all spellbound, marveling first at her statue-like stillness and then at her slow, expressive movements of face and body.

An aside: Not long ago, Albuquerque’s city council passed a busking ordinance. Maybe when I get back, there’ll be mimes in Old Town and downtown and in the parks and on Central.

I always enjoy the opportunity to look at people—really look, really stare—because I find humans to be such fascinating creatures and because scrutinizing them is not allowed in polite society. We can look long and hard at children, but staring at others past the toddler stage is unacceptable social behavior. I remember taking a portrait-and-figure-drawing course in my 20s, and it was a freeing feeling to be able to intently study another person’s face and body. And this is what mimes invite us to do: to study them.

After that, Margarita, Miriam, and I wove our way through the crowds in the park and headed toward the cathedral and the palacio estatal (palace of the state government of Veracruz) located on opposites sides of the street. The streets of city’s center had been cordoned off, and people started to gather in front of the stage and runway erected for the entertainment to come.

We found a prime spot near the grandstand where the governor of the state of Veracruz, Fidel Herrera Beltran, and other dignitaries and their families would sit. From there, we watched some of the entertainment, beginning with a young woman named Sandra, a local talent who sang several songs. She was followed by three young women who sang operatic pieces; and then a danzon group, made up of six or seven couples in their late 60s and 70s who danced with rhythm and dignity.

At that point, we decided to find a place to sit and have something to drink. But as we pushed our way through the crowd—by now it was after 9, and the street was wall-to-wall people—I got separated from Margarita and Miriam. I assessed my chances of finding them again in the swelling crowd as nil, but I was determined to stay for el grito at 11:00 p.m. alone or in company. Then about a half hour later, almost miraculously, Margarita and Miriam found me, and we went for that drink.

We found a Cuban café, Cabanias, with tables outside in the callejon (alley) where Margarita ordered tequila served that night in three different shot glasses sporting the patriotic red, white, and green colors of Mexico's flag: the red one containing tomato juice and chile, among other ingredients; the "white" one containing tequila; and the green one containing lime juice. As for me, I had a glass of dry red wine.

When it got to be 10:45, we headed back to the centro to hear the grito de dolores—the cry of pain—first uttered by Miguel Hidalgo on September 16, 1810, and that over time has become a shout of pride: Viva Mexico! [If you’d like to see a very close facsimile of what I saw and heard last Saturday, view this YouTube video, which shows the stirring ritual as it took place in Mexico City at the same time that Xalapa’s celebration took place. In Mexico City, Mexico’s president Felipe Calderon was the principal actor, but in Xalapa, it was Veracruz state’s governor, Fidel Herrera Beltran.

As I listened to the people around me shout, “Viva…” in response, I could hear their pride in their mexicanidad, their country, their history, their culture, and I was moved by this demonstration of their national pride.

After the grito ritual, the fireworks show began—with great blossoms of red, white, and green exploding over our heads. We were so close, at times we could feel the rain of ashes in our eyes. And then, when the fireworks ended and the bands—the Banda Que Manda among them—were about to start playing, people behind us started pushing. It was a scary feeling, like being caught in an undertow while walking at the edge of the ocean. And there were little kids and babies in the crowd, on the shoulders or in the arms of their parents. Luckily, someone moved a barricade, and we were able to move around a large RV that otherwise might have become the windshield against which we bugs might have been squashed.

Once past the crush of people in the centro, we walked home through streets still full of kids, their parents, their grandparents, people still partying, people done partying and sitting in doorways, and people like us wending our way home.

2007-09-23T20:10:00.000-06:00

This past week, I've been a guest presenter in other teachers’ classes at the Centro de Idiomas, talking to the students about New Mexico and the U.S. and giving students a chance to interact with a native English speaker. It’s been fun to talk with students and to hear their questions. In several classes, students have asked about the UFOs sighted around Roswell and whether I believe in UFOs. Students are interested in the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta when I tell them about it, and they have questions about the Trinity Site where the first atomic bomb was exploded (“Is there a big hole there?” “Is it still radioactive?”).

But some students have asked harder questions, like “What do you think about the wall your country is building on the border?” Then there is the fact—no news to them—that the land that is now New Mexico used to belong to México until the U.S.-Mexican War and the sale of a large parcel of land (called the Gadsden Purchase in the U.S., the Venta de la Mesilla here in Mexico) made it U.S. territory. These events were the beginning of the conflicted relations between Mexico and the U.S., and they continue to be conflicted today.
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During one of my classes in which we were talking about intercultural communications—which involves a lot more than simply speaking the language of another country—I asked students to describe the stereotypical American. “Go on,” I said, “I can take it.” And here’s the description I got:

cold
rude
impatient
thinks s/he’s better than other people.

I took the opportunity to give one possible explanation for people from the U.S. being perceived as impatient—outside of the possibility that many of us are in fact impatient people, used to fast, automatized service—by explaining that in the U.S., we are accustomed to waiting in lines to be served, and the rule is “first come, first served.” Anyone who cuts into the line or pushes to the front is quickly castigated and sent to the rear.

I witnessed a vivid example of this rule in action when I was standing in line to board the plane from ABQ to Dallas on my way here. The lines were long, and as I approached the X-ray machine to have my carry-on luggage scanned, a man hurried up to one of the security people and evidently asked to pass through security ahead of the line because he was about to miss his plane. In a loud voice, the official told the man, “Only if you want to ask each one of these people in line if you can go ahead of them.” Since there were probably 200 of us in line, this would hardly have sped him on his way in time to make his plane. Frankly, I would have let the guy through, but the security official clearly took the “first come, first served” rule seriously.

But in Mexico, the rule is different. I have been at pharmacies and supermarkets where people pushed ahead of me or stood beside (not behind) me and began talking to the clerk even while I was being helped. And the clerk has stopped and responded to that person while I waited. With the “first come, first served” rule ringing in my head, I would have been tempted to inquire, “Who is being impatient in this case—me or the person who demands the help of the clerk while I’m being helped?”

Thank goodness I had been prepared for this situation during the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program Orientation last August, or I might have responded as an “impatient” American: “Excuse me. I was first in line. Please wait your turn.”

Craig Storti’s presentation on “The Art of Crossing Cultures” was the highlight of the orientation for me not only because he was such an engaging speaker but because what he said and demonstrated and had us role-play has been so useful to me ever since—to wit, the cultural rules I’ve grown up with are merely my culture’s rules. Other cultures go by other rules. We grow up believing strongly that our rules are the right way to do things, but in fact they are simply our way of doing things. The rules that people from other cultures act on aren’t necessarily wrong, only different.

In Mexico, the rule is that everyone gets a little help, a little service, at the same time. No one is ignored. Each person’s needs are important, and in fact some people’s needs just might be more important than others at a particular point in time.

That’s why intercultural communication is so complex—because it involves understanding the unspoken rules of the culture which govern people’s behavior.

And lest I leave the wrong impression, in many large stores where there are long lines, Mexican people wait in line without jumping ahead. But when the line is short, the other rule seems to apply.

2007-09-19T19:38:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, Tuesday, I left the Centro de Idiomas at 1:30 and headed for Ursulo Galvan Street where, days before, I’d noticed two bookstores across the street from each other: Da Vinci Libreria on the north and La Rueca de Gandhi on the south side of the street.

I browsed both stores—preferring La Rueca because it’s bigger and less cramped and has more books—but both had a large selection of classic and contemporary titles in Spanish and some books in English as well. So at the Da Vinci, I bought:

A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century, a history by Barbara W. Tuchman
Goodbye Senorita Julia, a novel by Javier Memba that looked like it was written in a readable style (that is, in a style that I could read without spending equal time in a Spanish dictionary)

And at La Rueca de Gandhi, I bought:

El Crepusculo de los Idolos by Nietzsche
Vida y obra de Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz y carta a Sor Filotea, an anthology and biography of Sor Juana
The Beet Queen, the best-selling novel of several years ago that I never got around to reading, written by Louise Erdrich

I've found that I don’t like to read in Spanish at night before I go to sleep. I often use reading as a soporific, but books and magazine written in Spanish don’t have that effect on me because I still have to struggle too much to understand them.

After I left the bookstores, I found my way to the Restaurante de Mamá Belem where the comida corrida costs 30 pesos—less than $3 American—for a delicious four-course meal. I arrived at 3:00 p.m., the height of the comida traffic. I had to wait for a table, and soon after I’d found one, I was asked by a server if I would mind sharing the table with a joven who had also been waiting for a table.

I don’t think this would ever happen in the U.S.—a customer being asked to share a table with someone s/he didn’t know. And not just I but several others were asked to share their tables as well. I said that would be fine, and I enjoyed the company of the 18-year-old high school boy who joined me at my table. I can't speak for him.

---

Tonight, a hair stylist, Nic Té, recommended to me by Isabel and Pery, came to my apartment to cut my hair—and charged me 100 pesos, less than $10 American. Actually, the haircut itself cost 5 dollars, but she charges 5 dollars for the taxi she takes to get to her clients’ houses. What a treat—to have a haircut at home in the evening at the end of a long day. And best of all, I'm pleased with the cut she gave me.
---

Here’s a photo taken last Saturday, September 15, at Pery’s house. She invited me and the coordinator of the Centro de Idiomas, Miguel Angel, and his wife Irma and daughter Mariela for a meal to celebrate the 15th of September, eve of Mexican Independence Day on September 16.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record—once again—the food was wonderful. Pery served tamales (made by her neighbor) of chicken with a sauce of chile seco and chile ancho, encased in corn masa, and wrapped in papatla leaves instead of the corn husks we’re used to in New Mexico—and o what a marvelous flavor those leaves imparted to the tamales! Along with them, Pery served patriotic plates of red and green gorditas, black beans, arroz rojo, and chicken in a mole verde sauce. And for dessert, we had a tres leches cake that Miguel Angel and Irma brought. What a meal that was!

2007-09-12T20:37:00.000-06:00

I guess it was bound to happen: la venganza de Moctezuma!

I've sometimes bragged about my cast-iron stomach, which has allowed me to eat lots of spicy, rich, exotic food without suffering much beyond a little heartburn. But I will brag with less swagger from now on after being laid low by a stomach ailment from Sunday night through Tuesday. Actually, the offending comestible--was it something I ate at the Indian restaurant where Margarita, Miriam, and I went for lunch on Sunday? or the salsa I bought at a natural foods market and which I slathered liberally on my quesadilla for supper?--well, whatever it was, it left me fairly quickly by opposite orifices, saving me from prolonged contact with whatever bug got me.

But all day Monday and Tuesday I was sapped of energy and as sore as if someone had used my torso as a punching bag. Today, after sleeping nearly all day and night on both Monday and Tuesday, I woke up feeling tremendously better. Thank goodness--I didn't want to miss a third day of classes.

Pery was a really good samaritan on Monday night and brought me some rice and vegetables, cooked apples (this is a common food for diarrhea, she told me), Gatorade, fresh fruit, and fresh chamomile and yerba buena (spearmint) from her garden and with which she made me a tea (using the flowers of the chamomile).

And other teachers called or emailed me to offer to bring me food or drink or whatever I needed while I was sick. Everyone, in fact, has been really kind.

And now this episode is closed. I will be more careful from now on. Onward and upward.

2007-09-08T22:58:00.000-06:00

This afternoon, I took a walk to Los Lagos, three small connected man-made lakes with a wide paved path around their perimeters. A lot of other people of all ages had the same idea I did this afternoon: I ran into people with kids; young and not-so-young people making out with sweethearts on park benches; people jogging and running and skating and riding bikes; people sitting; people walking; people just taking it easy.

In the middle of the first lake is a fountain that spurts water high in the air, as you can see in this photo. And now, look way up on the hill on the northern horizon and you can see the red dome of the Corazones Church. (Click on the photo to get a larger view.) I live just east of this church.
---
Yesterday, Pery and I went to lunch at a little restaurant—a hole in the wall—aptly named El Huequito (little hole)—near the Centro de Idiomas. Well, it’s not that small, but it’s definitely crowded. At one point, there was a line—a cola (a tail) as they are called—of people waiting to get in. It’s a popular place with university students, Pery told me, because the food is cheap (comida corrida for less than $2.50 American), ample, and delicious. I ordered—forgive me—pollo Kentucky. I couldn’t resist trying El Huequito’s version of KFC. It was tasty, but as I explained to Pery, it wasn’t at all greasy enough to be like the real thing.

On the way to El Huequito, we passed the Colon Stadium, a baseball stadium, which Pery told me is also used for other sports, including futbol (soccer). She also said that that Xalapa has its own basketball team, the Halcones—and all of the starting players are from the US!
----

When geraniums first in my dooryard bloomed…
This picture shows my doorway on the right and the pink geranium nearby that started to bloom a few days ago.

And here’s the red geranium that bloomed only yesterday. Lately, we’ve been getting a lot of rain at night. This same rain has been causing flooding in other parts of the state close to the gulf.
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El Grito

Everyday, new patriotic decorations are appearing in the city: Mexican flags, big and little, fly from homes, cars, and pickups; swaths of green, white, and red bunting hang from parapets and steeples; and a sign expressing Mexican pride straddles the main street of the city. Everyone is preparing for September 16, Mexican Independence Day.

My students have told me about the celebration of Mexico’s independence from Spain in 1810, and I’m eager to experience it for myself. I was advised by one of my Mexican colleagues at the Centro de Idiomas—was it Maestro Gregorio or Maestro Jose Miguel, a former Fulbright Exchange teacher to Minnesota?—to go to Guanajuato if I want to see where it all took place. But I haven’t yet ventured to other cities on a bus. I’m quite content to observe how Xalapeños celebrate this holiday.

Speaking of buses, I suspect I will be taking a bus to Mexico City for a Comexus-Fulbright meeting at the end of October. That will be an adventure—taking the bus (which I hear is a good experience if you choose the first-class and not the third-class bus service) and visiting the city of Mexico City with its 22 or 23 million people. I’ll be reuniting with the Fulbright Exchange teachers I first met in Colorado and then again in Alexandria, VA, during the Fulbright Orientation.
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Poco a poco…

I first started paying attention to this saying when I heard Margarita say it on the ride from the Veracruz airport to Xalapa on the evening I arrived. From that day to this, she’s assured me that, poco a poco, I’ll improve my Spanish, learn my way around Xalapa, figure out the Mexican money system, understand that I have to be careful when crossing streets, and in general adjust to life in Mexico. Poco a poco.

At first, I thought this was Margarita’s personal credo—or perhaps her fervent hope that I would in due time be able to manage without her so that she wouldn’t have to worry about me.

But as I listened to other Mexicans speak, I kept hearing that phrase: poco a poco. Little by little.

And after four weeks here, I’ve heard the phrase so often that I’ve concluded this frase is more than a popular saying; I’ve decided it’s a Mexican way of approaching life: Poco a poco, we learn. Poco a poco, we adjust. Poco a poco, we understand. Poco a poco, change takes place in us and in the world.

In fact, just a minute ago, I heard a TV newscaster use the phrase twice: Poco a poco, the flood waters in parts of Veracruz state are receding, and poco a poco, aid is reaching the people who are suffering from the flooding. I’m beginning to wonder if this saying is used as an expression of hope and encouragement because I haven’t noticed it being used cynically or sarcastically, as in “Poco a poco, things are bound to get worse.” But I’m not sure this observation is true. I’ll keep listening.

Poco a poco says, "Things take time; be patient; don't expect miracles." You can see my problem, my internal conflict, can't you? I come from the land of fast food, one-hour dry-cleaning, the fast lane, and instant gratification. Poco a poco doesn’t fit into this terrain. I’m reminded of the prayer/joke: “Dear Lord, give me patience, and give it to me now!” Or, in my case, as I contemplate the short year I will have here in México, “Help me learn the wisdom of poco a poco, and make it snappy!”

2007-09-01T10:49:00.000-06:00

On Friday afternoon, Pery took me to her house for a lesson in empanada-making and for lunch afterward. The empanadas she taught me to make are not the dessert kind similar to little half-circle pastries that I was familiar with in New Mexico. Rather, these empanadas are heartier, main-dish empanadas that start with a masa of corn flour. Pery had bought the masa and then Juanita, the young woman who works for her, prepared it by adding salt and water and kneading it to a silken texture.

Pery said my job would be to [wo]man the tortilla press and assemble the empanadas. She then showed me how to take a piece of dough and roll it into a ball, slightly smaller than a golf ball, between my palms and then flatten the ball a little before placing it on the wooden tortilla press.

Pery’s press consists of two blocks of wood that can be pressed together using an attached handle. (Click to see an example of a wooden tortilla press similar to Pery’s; scroll down the page to view the oak one, not the decidedly phallic-looking mesquite one.) A circular piece of plastic wrap is placed on each wooden block to keep the dough from sticking to the wood when pressed.

I was pleased to discover that when I pressed the dough between the two wood blocks of the press—not too much pressure, not too little, but just enough—it produced a perfect circle of dough! The secret of round tortillas was revealed to me in that instant. -Okay, I know that there are women who produce the same round shape without the aid of a press, but I was happy to know that if I were ever to take up making tortillas and empanadas on a regular basis, I could make them look respectable with this maravilla, as Pery calls it.

Next, Pery instructed me to place one of three different fillings—mashed potatoes, or shredded cheese, or beef (I think she added soy protein, too) that she had cooked with onion, garlic, and cilantro--on half of each beautiful circle of dough. She then showed me how to fold the dough over the filling and press the edges slightly to keep the filling from falling out during frying. Juanita and Pery took turns frying the empanadas—I’m not sure for how many minutes on each side, but when they emerged from the hot oil, they were a lovely lightly golden color.

Pery complimented me on how uniform the empanada were and took this picture (coming soon) so that you, too, dear reader, can admire my handiwork. Now, I am a modest person at heart--some would say I have much to be modest about--but just look at those beautiful empanadas! How can I remain modest about my empanada-making skills in the face of this evidence?

And then we sat down to feast. Pery had made a salsa of tomatoes, jalapeños, cilantro, and garlic blended together and heated to serve on top of the empanadas, and there were crumbles of queso fresco, lettuce, and media crema (similar to sour cream but pourable) to put on top as well, a su gusto. My, my, my, those empanadas were tasty!

2007-08-29T19:16:00.000-06:00

I mentioned in a previous posting that the streets of Xalapa are steep. Here's an example of what I'm talking about: On my way home from school, I climb these steps--and there are more when I turn right at the top--where those two people--see them high on the landing?--are standing in the photo.

Right now, I have to stop three or four times to catch my breath as I climb these steps each day. I'm using them to gauge my improving physical condition. When I can climb them without stopping--or falling in a heap from oxygen deficiency--I will take it as a sign of my improved physical state.

The steps you see here are constructed of volcanic rock cemented together with concrete, so they are not smooth. I've discovered that it's important to literally watch my step on these steps and on all the streets and sidewalks of Xalapa. I like to look at the architectural features of Xalapa's houses and buildings as I walk, but when I do this and forget to watch my step, I invariably step on an uneven spot or into a hole or come upon a sudden step up or down or bump into someone.

So far, however, I've managed to spare myself the ignominy and pain of falling on my face or backside. I'll continue to walk carefully along the streets here.
--
More about my apartment: Here's a photo of my living room. There are photos of my family on the table in the corner of the room next to the couch. (For those of you with OCD: I straightened the picture on the wall after I took this photo.)

In the corner on the left, you can see my TV. I have cable TV here, something I don't have in the U.S., so I get something like 66 channels, including several channels that feature movies and TV shows in spoken English with Spanish subtitles. It's an entertaining way to add to my Spanish vocabulary.

2007-08-28T18:19:00.000-06:00

I love my apartment here in Xalapa. Isabel, my Fulbright Exchange partner, spent a good deal of time looking for an apartment for me that was furnished, was secure, and had two bedrooms. She did a great job!

Here's a photo of me taking a photo of my hallway, at the end of which--obviously--is a mirror. The doorways on either side of the mirror are to my bedroom on left and the guest bedroom on the right. The closer door on the right is the bathroom door. Behind me in the mirror, you can see one of my dining room chairs. I mostly use my dining room table as my desk. I haven't done any entertaining yet.

And here are some photos of my kitchen.

I haven't cooked since I arrived in Xalapa. Mostly, I've been eating the midday meal at various small restaurants near my apartment or the Centro de Idiomas that offer la comida corrida, a daily special. The comida corrida usually includes four courses: a choice of two different soups, a rice or pasta course, the entree, and a dessert. Depending on the restaurant, there might be three, four, or five different entrees of the day to choose from.

Take today as an example. I ate at the Itecate Restaurant a few blocks from my apartment. I had the sopa Mexicana, a vegetable-and-garbanzo-bean soup in a tomato broth, served with lime, of course, and chopped cilantro, onion, and jalapeño. O yum! Then I had spaghetti with butter to go with the chicken in a spicey tomato sauce, and finally, I had a jello-pudding concoction for dessert. Oh, yes, and rolls with the soup and corn tortillas with the entree, but I don't usually eat these. Typically, a fruit drink such as lemonade or horchata (a rice-based drink) comes with the meal as well.

At night, I usually reheat leftovers or take-out food (comida para llevar). I'm not talking about fast-food take-out but about slow-food take-out: soup, arroz rojo, refried beans, tamales, and other food that I can buy at a nearby restaurant and heat up for supper. For breakfast, I keep fresh fruit in the fridge and, of course, I make coffee in the morning. Isabel gave me the gift of some Bola de Oro coffee (scroll down to read about it) that I'm really enjoying.

Tonight is an exception to my no-cooking rule. I made myself a feast of the green beans and new red potatoes that I bought at the mercado on Sunday. I boiled and then seasoned them with garlic, salt, olive oil, and a little butter.

2007-08-27T19:51:00.000-06:00

Last Saturday night, I went to two parties with Margarita. The first one was a tardeada (afternoon party) for jubilados (retired people)—in this case, retired primary school teachers--hosted by their teachers union. This party began at 5:00 but didn’t really get revved up until 6:30 when the women—who far outnumbered the men—found their way to the dance floor and began dancing together, forming a large circle in the center of the floor.

At 7:00, Margarita and I left the tardeada and took a taxi to get to the second party, a quinceañera, which is a celebration of a girl’s fifteenth birthday. Margarita didn’t know the girl nor her family, but she—and I—were invited to attend by a friend of Margarita's, Doctora Gisela Margarita Reyna—the girl's family's physician and friend—who was invited.

When we got to the banquet hall, the girl herself had yet to arrive because she was having photos taken following the mass that preceded the dinner and dance. However, her parents were there, and the doctor introduced us to them. When their daughter, Jennifer, did arrive in her beautiful pink gown, she was escorted in by her parents, and then her padrino (godfather) spoke briefly and offered a toast in honor of the girl on her 15th birthday, and all the guests joined in. Next, the father waltzed with his daughter, and then other men—her padrino, relatives, and friends—danced with her as well.

Then dinner was served. Now, Margarita and I had already eaten a tasty cena of little sandwiches and finger food at the tardeada. Actually, Margarita stashed most of her food in her purse for the next morning's desayuno. I, however, ate heartily, being hungry and not realizing that a several-course meal awaited us at the next party. So when this second meal was served, I ate the appetizer (melon balls), the cheese soup with salsa con chile seco, and the pasta dish. But I had the good sense to say no to the entrée, chicken Cordon Bleu, served with sautéed vegetables, and the dessert.

When the meal was over, the dancing began. And what a dance! The real stars on the floor were Margarita and la doctora. Now, the doctor is not a tall woman—she might be my height when not wearing high heels, which she was wearing that night—and she is not a tiny woman. Rubenesque might best describe her. Nevertheless, I’ve don't think I've ever seen such energy, such joyous movement, on the dance floor before.

Throughout the whole long set, which lasted an hour or so without stop, the DJ playing one song after another, changing the beat from song to song but never letting it slow down, la doctora and Margarita danced without stopping. The doctor clearly believes in inclusion; she beckoned me to join them, and I did, but I couldn’t dance nonstop as she and Margarita were doing, so I danced awhile, sat down awhile, and so on. At one point, the two of them went over to the parents of the birthday girl and insisted they dance, and it was fun to watch them start out slowly, a little tensely, begin to dance and then get into the movement.

Song after song,—mambo, salsa, cumbia, tropical—the doctor and Margarita kept dancing, smiles of joy on Margarita’s face, smiles of merriment and mischief on the doctor’s face. It was an amazing site. Heck, it was an amazing feat--to dance like that for so long. I was mightily impressed. And what fun!
--

On Sunday, I went to the outdoor mercado with Margarita and Miriam. Margarita drove her car to Joaquin and Doña Tere's house, and from there we all walked a few blocks to the mercado. I bought two cantaloupe, a pineapple, a bunch of bananas, some green beans, new red potatoes, avocados, and freshly made blue corn tortillas.
I have to admit that the mercado was a little much for me the first time I went two weeks ago. I’ve been used to buying food in supermarkets with polished tile floors, elevator music, cans and bottles lined up in straight rows on carefully dusted shelves, meat and fish behind plastic wrap or glass cases, and fruits and vegetables washed of all traces of the earth from which they came and many waxed to a high sheen.

How different that experience from the seeming chaos of the mercado—the close press of people on all sides; the sight of freshly killed chicken and pork sitting exposed to the air (and the flies); the smell of fish freshly caught in the gulf beyond the port of Veracruz, I presume, and resting uncovered on their beds of ice; and the huge array of fruits, vegetables, herbs, fresh cheeses, nuts and seeds, and chiles, many I’d never seen before and many that would never have made it into a US supermarket for their failure to demonstrate an ideal medium size and uniform shape. No, there are too many overachievers and underachievers in all this variety.

But this second time, I realized I was over my squeamishness, and I enjoyed the experience and the opportunity to buy really fresh fruits and vegetables. And I marveled at some of the frail creatures, especially the old people, mixing with the crowd—one old woman in particular who was perhaps 4’6” tall, using two canes like ski poles to help her walk slowly through the glut of humanity. She could so easily have been overlooked and knocked over, but she kept moving along slowly, slowly, determined and fearless.
--

After leaving the mercado, we went to the Jardin Botanico where we saw a special exhibit of orchids native to the Xalapa area and walked around just a small area of the beautiful grounds. After that, we went to a restaurant and sat outside under a roof of palm leaves and enjoyed a lovely, leisurely meal.

2007-08-25T12:10:00.000-06:00

Imagine you're a teacher on a Fulbright Teacher Exchange, going to another country as a representative of your college and your country. You want to make a good impression, especially on the first day of classes. You want your colleagues and your students at the new school to respect you for the professional that you are. No pressure though.

Okay, now imagine the day from hell. Well, maybe that's a little strong. Imagine a day from purgatory. Even that's a little strong. Imagine an hour of purgatory. I think I’ve exercised your imagination long enough. Here’s what actually happened:

Last night, I prepared for the first day of classes by setting out my clothes, getting the coffeepot ready to go, putting my books and supplies in my bag, and setting my new alarm clock. Yes. I set my new alarm clock for 5:45. I wanted to get there early. And, of course, you can already guess that that alarm clock didn’t go off. No. Instead, I woke up to a deep silence. The light in my bedroom was still subdued, so I thought I had wakened before the alarm went off, but I looked at my watch just to be on the safe side: 7:52 a.m. Eight minutes to 8:00! Eight minutes to get to my first class on time! But I knew that it was impossible. After all, Isabel had told me that the school was 15 minutes on foot from my apartment.

Luckily, I had my new cell phone, which I had bought mainly to contact the school in case of illness or some other catastrophe. So I called—or, rather, attempted to call—the Centro de Idiomas. But instead I got a message in Spanish that I wasn’t able to interpret although it was clear that for some reason my call wasn't able to go through.

There was nothing to do but to throw on my clothes, run a brush through my hair, swish my mouth with Scope, grab my bag, and get to school as fast as I could. The walk is all downhill so I was able to go fast. In fact, I arrived at the school and walked into my classroom at 8:08 by the time on my watch (which I keep 2 or 3 minutes fast). Whew!

My students were there, 14 of them, sitting quietly in their seats, as I rushed into the room. I introduced myself as their teacher and apologized for my lateness. I gradually recovered my composure and got down to the business of explaining the contents of the course and how their speaking, listening, reading, and writing skills would be evaluated. (At the Centro de Idiomas, students don’t receive a printed syllabus; instead, the instructor goes over the programa with the students orally and answers any questions they have.)

At that moment, a cell phone rang, and I took the opportunity to ask students to always turn off their cell phones in class. But no one moved to turn off the ringing phone. I decided I needed to demonstrate what I was asking them to do, so I pulled my phone out of my pants pocket and held it up for the students to see. R-r-ring! OMG! That ringing phone was mine! I looked at it as if it were a rattling snake. I didn’t know how to turn it off—I just got it, remember—but luckily it stopped after a few more rings.

What could I do but laugh at that point? It was becoming a comedy of errors. The students began to laugh good-naturedly, too.

The situation reminded me of a workshop I attended once in which the presenter showed how she deliberately demonstrated bad classroom behavior at the beginning of the first class of a term—arriving late, chewing gum loudly, eating a roll, drinking coffee, taking a phone call in class, seeming not being prepared—as a roleplay to start a discussion with students on what kinds of behavior should and shouldn’t take place in the classroom. I was also reminded of my seventh-grade teacher Sister Olivia’s grave warning to her students: that some of us would serve as bad examples for the rest.

At that point, a student knocked on the closed classroom door and asked politely for permission to enter. (This is what students do in Mexico, unlike in public schools and universities in the U.S., where they are taught to enter as unobtrusively as possible--although the unobtrusive part sometimes gets overlooked.) I certainly wasn’t in a position to deny his request nor admonish him for being late, even if I’d been inclined to do so. I ended up saying to him and the class that, beginning Monday, we should all do our best to arrive on time. And then we got down to work.

The rest of the day went well. The students in both of my classes were polite and friendly and seemed eager to learn English. I found out that my phone call during class had come from Pery, who was worried about me when I didn’t show up at the school on time. I also found out that the reason I couldn't make a call on my cell phone was lack of air time. When I bought the phone, I thought I was getting 300 minutes of air time free as part of the purchase, but in fact, I received 300 pesos (about 60 minutes) of air time--the first 100 pesos disbursed at the time of the purchase, and 100 pesos made available at the beginning of the next two months.

I ended up staying at the school all afternoon. I talked with Gabi and Rosa Elena from the Self-Access Center, where I will be involved in helping with “conversation clubs” and reviewing some of the learning materials developed there as additional resources for students. I also worked on plans for Monday’s classes and talked with some of the other English teachers who showed up at the faculty computer room. I was getting ready to leave when I heard the sound of heavy rain coming through the open door of the office. I ended up waiting about 30 minutes for the rain to stop so that I could walk home.

When I got back to my apartment at 5:48 that evening, I could hear my new alarm clock ringing as soon as I opened the front door.

2007-08-23T16:56:00.000-06:00

I've solved the laundry enigma! Today I returned to the little lavanderia on Azueta Street where I'd taken my dirty clothes last Tuesday and this time picked them up, now folded, encased in a heavy plastic bag, and smelling of laundry soap--and it cost me $40 pesos, less than $4 US.

On the way home, I took this side view of a large Catholic church located across the street from my apartment building. I don't know its real name, but it's known unofficially as Corazones (hearts). You can click on the picture here to see the image somewhat enlarged.

The name comes from the story behind its construction sometime in the 1870s (if my memory serves me).

According to that story, a young woman, daughter of a wealthy businessman in Xalapa, fell in love with a young man of lesser status and economic means. The father refused to allow his daughter to marry her love, and as a result, she began to pine away, fell ill and died. To deal with his grief and regret, the father built this church.

There's more to the story related to how the site for the church was chosen by the father, but I can't recall the details. I looked on the web for information about this church but didn't find any.

2007-08-22T09:05:00.000-06:00

Rain. Not a pounding fury, just steady rain. That's what I woke up to this morning. From my window, I notice that the windows of the acupuncturista's office next door have been taped, and the office itself is dark.

Speaking of pounding fury...the apartment below mine is being remodeled by two guys who are making hay, so to speak, while the sun doesn't shine. I guess since they can't work outside, they've come inside to work. The hammering and pounding keep an even cadence for a few bars and then stop. Then resume.

---

To ward off cabin fever, I went for a walk to a small restaurant, El Principal, about three blocks away on Altamirano Street, for la comida at around 3:00. I kept dry, except for my sandaled feet, thanks to my new umbrella. It was a miracle though because taxis whizzed by me on the narrow streets. I thought for sure I'd get drenched, but somehow I escaped.

The picture shown here--taken as I left my apartment--captures the gray sky and falling rain as seen from the second floor hallway of the apartment building. If you look between the two plants and past the wrought-iron railing, you may be able to make out the gate to the apartment building and the street beyond.

When I got to the restaurant, about four of the 10 or so tables were taken with diners eating and watching the TV perched high on one wall that was tuned to a news program describing hurricane damage in other parts of the state.

Today's menu featured a choice of soup (crema de zanahorria [carrot] soup or a sopa de pasta), arroz rojo or sphagetti, eight or nine different entrees, and pureed guayaba for dessert.

I ordered the carrot soup, arroz rojo, and queso asado. I thought I'd ordered something like a quesadilla--cheese melted between two corn tortillas--that I'm familiar with from New Mexico. But what arrived on the plate could best be described as a cheese fillet or cheese "steak." It consisted of a large, thick circle of mild white cheese that had been grilled on both sides, along with onions, and then the onions were served on top of the cheese, with refried black beans on the side. I was surprised and a little amused by this presentation--I never would have thought of frying cheese like a hamburger patty--and I expected the cheese to be bland, but the onions seasoned it nicely. All in all, it was quite tasty, along with everything that came with it.

2007-08-21T22:33:00.000-06:00

Look at this photo carefully. I took it yesterday as I walked to the Centro de Idiomas because--for the first time in my brief time here--the sky was mostly blue, like New Mexico's.

Now it may be that that the sky in Xalapa is blue every morning, but so far, I've been emerging from my apartment no earlier than 10:30 a.m., so I really can't say. For the most part, I've seen lots of clouds in Xalapa's skies.

The reason I took this picture was not to capture the blue of the sky but, rather, the view of the Pico de Orizaba in the distance that has been obscured by clouds almost continually since I've been here. See it there, its peak perennially covered in snow, way in the distance? In life, it was much more impressive.

2007-08-21T19:20:00.000-06:00

A new development: Classes have been canceled for tomorrow and the next day at all schools in the state of Veracruz, including the Centro de Idiomas here in Xalapa, because of Hurricane Dean. The governor of Veracruz made the announcement today in anticipation of heavy rains and winds in the state. So my first day of classes will begin on Friday, not tomorrow.

And while I have you here, let me tell you what happened to me earlier this evening. On my way home from buying a cell phone for local calls, I stopped in at a small restaurant--I forget the name--located 2 or 3 blocks from my apartment. Pery had recommended it, so I was eager to try the food.

I entered the open door--the doors of every restaurant here stand open because there are so few flies in Xalapa--and asked the waiter if I could buy some consomme with vegetables--to go--that I'd seen listed on the menu at the door. He informed me that the only soup available was a creamed soup. So then I asked for some red rice to go. He showed me a table with the specials of the day, pointing out that today's rice wasn't red (cooked in tomato sauce). When I asked how it was cooked, he explained that it was cooked some other way, the details of which eluded my ability to interpret them, but I did catch the words mantequilla and caldo de pollo, so I asked for two orders (one for today, one for tomorrow).

In a short time, the waiter brought me two large containers of rice.

"How much?" I asked.

I could swear I heard him say, "90 pesos." So I produced a 20-peso bill--mistaking it for a 200-peso bill. He pointed out that I was short. I apologized and pulled out a 50-peso bill and two 10-peso coins--a total of 90 pesos ($8.10 at today's rate of exchange).

Now, ordinarily, I make a rough translation of prices from dollars to pesos by mentally moving the decimal point one place to the left. For example, if a price is stated as $197 in pesos, I mentally move the decimal to the left to get a ballpark amount in dollars of $19.70. But I skipped this step during the soup transaction, or I would have realized that 90 pesos--$9--for two containers of rice was too much.

Thankfully, at this point, the young man took my 20-peso bill and one of the 10-peso coins, pointing out that the price of the rice was 30 pesos ($2.71 at the current rate of exchange), not 90 pesos. I thanked him, grateful for his honesty, and told him what was pretty obvious--that I am still having some difficulties with the money.

The waiter then asked me if I wanted some tortillas to go with the rice, and when I said yes, the young woman making tortillas nearby put four fresh, hot corn tortillas in a plastic bag for me. And THEN the waiter added a bag of two fresh rolls and two packets of after-dinner mints to my cache. I did have the good sense to tip them both and thank them one more time.

2007-08-21T09:47:00.000-06:00

Hurricane Dean landed on Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula this morning. Both Margarita and Pery have told me that Xalapa will probably get a lot of rain out of it, but that's all. But in the past, Pery said, the heavy rain has closed the school for a couple days.

I haven't yet bought a cell phone for local use. I was concerned at first with being able to communicate with family and friends in the U.S., and I solved that problem with Skype. In fact, with Skype, I was able to be part of a family party on Saturday night: my son Shane took his laptop and webcam to the party, and I was able to see and talk to everyone there. It was great! O what a brave new world the internet has opened to us!

And now that classes are about to begin, I need to be able to communicate with the school in the event that I have to call in sick And, of course, I want to be able to call the people I meet here.
--
Laundry: I haven't dealt with this growing problem yet. I read somewhere that disruption of routines may be the real source of culture shock. In a new culture, so much of what is routine in one's life becomes anything but routine. Instead, much of what one could do without conscious thought now become tasks that require careful, conscious thought because accomplishing them entails unfamiliar approaches. That's where I am with my laundry:

I know I have to take my laundry to a lavaderia and then, after a day or so, pick it up, clean and neatly folded. Or I could find a lavanderia that has washers and dryers that I could operate myself, but the only one I've seen like that is located on the incredibly steep Sexta de Juarez street that I trek on my way to and from school. I would prefer to do my own laundry but NOT if I have to carry it along this street. I know that there's a lavanderia on Altamirano Street not far from my apartment, so that's where I've decided to take my dirty clothes. So now I need to separate my laundry into two piles: clothes that I want to wash myself and clothes that I want someone else to wash. What can I do without for a couple of days? -Not that this matters because even if I were to wash some item like a shirt or blouse by hand, it wouldn't be dry the next day--although I tell myself that in a pinch I could blow-dry or iron it dry. What do I carry my laundry in when I take it to the lavanderia? These are not momentous questions, clearly, but I haven't had to think about how to take care of my laundry in these ways before.
--
Yesterday after the faculty meeting, Pery took me to a Japanese restaurant not far from the school. I had lots of questions for her about what was said at the meeting--I understood perhaps 50% of what said. I find that if I don't listen consciously and with intent to understand, spoken Spanish enters my head as mere sound, like the sound coming from a TV in the background. She filled me in on what I'd missed--I did get the gist of everything, but I tend to get the dates wrong--and we had a good meal of tasty rice and chicken.

I find myself writing a lot about food because I love food, and I love to eat. This is not a well-kept secret from those who know me or see me in the flesh. But I just realized that there is something of tradition involved in this interest as well.

I'm old enough to remember the days before the internet when loved ones and friends wrote each other letters during separations. When we were kids, we moved many times from our hometown, Park River, ND, and my mother would write to her own mother at least once a week. Likewise, when I went away to college, she would write to me often and I to her.

One of the prominent features of my mother's letters were the details of the meals she had cooked and the pastries and sweets she had baked that week. She was a wonderful cook and baker, and she took pains to balance her meals not only nutritionally but with an eye to the color of the food on the plate.

Cooking and baking were her creative outlets and sources of personal pride and high praise from those lucky enough to sit at her table--even in the lean times, of which there were many. In fact, part of her genius was her ability to take a sow's ear (some canned peas, some stale bread, for instances) and transform it into a silk purse (creamed peas on toast, one of our favorite meals). Her cinnamon rolls and pies spoiled me forever; I've almost never found them equaled since. And because cooking and baking took up much of her time as a a stay-at-home housewife with six kids, it took up space in her letters. I now see continuity between my attention to the food I encounter here and my mother's loving attention to food in her life and her letters of the past.

And speaking of food, on Sunday, Margarita, Miriam, Joaquin, and Doña Tere and I drove to La Antigua, a town near Veracruz. We stopped at a restaurant along the river called Las Delicias--delights--and there I had some delicious shrimp sautéed in butter and lots of garlic accompanied by rice and vegetables cooked and seasoned lightly. After the meal, we were treated to folk dancing from several regions of Mexico performed by six dancers in beautiful traditional dress.

Next, we took a walk across a foot bridge suspended on ropes across the wide La Antigua River. Doña Tere, who has occasional vetigo, stayed behind and waited for us. Then we toured the nearby "Casa de Cortes," not actually Cortes' home but more like an outpost. Hernan Cortes landed on what would become Veracruz in 1519. He was able to conquer the Aztec people in part because of the help given to him by Marina--Malinche.

The walls of the buldings remain pretty much intact, in part because nature has shored them up. Trees have grown up and embedded themselves in the walls. Joaquin said he doesn't think the site has been excavated by archaeologists yet, and I'm intrigued by the thought of what might be found if it were.

Observe the 16th century cannon located right behind the "Casa de Cortes" sign. in the lower photo. Frankly, I thought it was a replica, but it turns out to be authentic.

I found a lot more information about Antigua and its history on John Todd's webpage about "The Second Veracruz: Antigua, Veracruz, 1523-1600." Now I want to go back and look around more carefully and, especially, to visit "the first church in continental America."

2007-08-20T09:41:00.001-06:00

I´m sitting in the faculty computer pod at the Centro de Idiomas, the school where I´ll be teaching for the coming year. I´m here for a faculty meeting. The coordinator of the Centro, Maestro Miguel Angel Murrieta Rosendo, whom I met last week for the first time, told me he will introduce me at this meeting.

Pery (Esperanza) Zamora is my mentor here at the school. She took me to her house for lunch (la comida) last week, and I met her husband Serafin and their two daughters. Gabi, their older daughter, had just returned from a month in Toronto, Canada, where she was studying English.

The meal was wonderful--chicken in a cream sauce with corn and chile, red rice cooked perfectly, just the way I like it, nopalitos cooked with tomato, fried platanos, and corn tortilas. (Can you tell I´m an aficionada of the food here
...
The faculty meeting turned out to be very similar to the meetings in my department at CNM: a presentation of the many tasks to complete and problems to resolve during the term, and the expression of many opinions and ideas on how best to accomplish them. I enjoyed being an onlooker of this event that looked and sounded so much like the meetings I'm used to, aware that if it had been back at my college, I would have been in the thick of the discussion.

2007-08-18T11:36:00.000-06:00

Last Sunday, August 12, after we went to the outdoor mercado,
Margarita, Miriam, Joaquin, and Doña Tere took me to a small town near Xalapa called Xico to see the waterfall, cascada that is a well-known tourist site outside of the town.

After that, we went to a wonderful restaurant, Cafe Xiquena where I had enchiladas with mole.
For those who don't know about mole, it's a rich, complex sauce that
includes chocolate and chiles among its many ingredients.

2007-08-16T18:56:00.000-06:00

I’ve been in Mexico for a week now. Today is the first day that Margarita, Isabel’s sister, has NOT come to my apartment to take me to one place or another: the bank, the cable company, the grocery store, a restaurant, a seminar on Sequeiros at the university, nearby towns for outings, the school where I’ll be working, or some other destination. To be honest, I was ready for a rest today, and I’m sure Margarita was, too.

Margarita is retired—jubilada, as it is said in Spanish—from teaching primary school here for over 20 years. That’s why Isabel enlisted her to be my guide in Xalapa at the beginning of my stay. I can’t thank Isabel enough for her foresight in anticipating what I would need and enjoy in my first week here, and Margarita for her abundant energy and patience in taking me all around. Her daughter Miriam went with us, too, to most places, and her and Isabel's first cousin Joaquin has been the driver for out-of-town excursions and has been patient in answering my many questions.

Here are some observations and recollections from my first week here in Xalapa:

Banking: Margarita took me to her bank on the first day so that I could withdraw pesos from my credit union using my ATM card. After several attempts both at a teller window and the ATM machine, Margarita finally asked a man at a desk, clearly an officer of the bank, who told her that I would have to transact my business at Banamex instead because Santander Bank doesn’t handle these kinds of transactions for non-members.

Banamex was only a block or two away, and in no time, I had money to buy groceries and pay my first month’s rent. What a relief!

Walking: That’s how people get around here in Xalapa, along with taking buses and taxis. The steep streets of this city and the ease with which people climb up and down them amazes me! Xalapa is built on hilly terrain with mountains and a large volcano, el Pico de Orizaba, visible in the distance when the sky’s not covered in clouds. I’ve been physically tired at the end of each day because of the exercise I’ve been getting just going about my business--and that's a good thing.

The narrow sidewalks of the main streets are often crowded, and Margarita has warned me about walking in the streets when cars are approaching. Drivers here are definitely more aggressive than in Albuquerque—or perhaps I should say that more drivers are aggressive here than in ABQ—and evidently cars have the right of way, not pedestrians, except in intersections with stop lights.

Grocery shopping: Margarita took me to Chedraui’s, a supermercado near my apartment, to buy groceries on Friday, my first full day here. Since we’d spent so much time at the bank earlier, I bought only the most important items--cheese, dish soap, toilet paper, cream for my coffee [the closest I could get was a thick, barely sweet media crema in a can] and a few more odds and ends needed right away. (Isabel had given me a bag of coffee, Bola de Oro, grown and roasted here in the state of Veracruz, before I left ABQ so I didn’t have to buy any—and this coffee, I’ve discovered, is rich, dark and smooth.) Margarita suggested I wait until Sunday to buy fruits and vegetables at the outdoor mercado. By the time we left the supermarket, Margarita, Miriam, and I were running out of steam.

And so, on Sunday, we went—Margarita, Miriam, and I—first to her cousin Joaquin’s house to pick up him and his mother, Dona Teresa—and then to the mercado.

What amazed me was the variety of fruits and vegetables for sale. Stall after stall stretching for several blocks featured vegetables—but especially fruits—that I had never heard of before and in sizes I had never seen before. The avocados! Ay, que grandotes! I bought them and red grapes and oranges and limes and tomatoes and cantaloupe and guayavas and a fruit the size of cherries only yellow in color and different in flavor and whose name I now forget—and corn
tortillas freshly made. My kitchen is still full of fruit four days later. I’ll know to restrain myself at the mercado next time. But the guacamole I made from the avocados and spread on my homemade tortillas—delicious!

Speaking Spanish: People here have been so helpful and patient when I ask them to "habla más despacio, por favor," and I've been surprised at how much I can understand when speaking to someone in person versus when I listen to TV in Spanish. I've also encountered many people who quickly switch to English for my benefit and, I'm sure, to take the opportunity to practice their English skills. And as eager as I am to learn more Spanish, I find I'm always happy to switch to English and be able to express myself without wracking my brain for words that I know I don't possess. I said to Margarita (but I don't know if I expressed myself clearly, lacking verbs as I did) that I wanted to go to the verb store and buy some verbs, some Spanish
verbs, preferably on a card similar to the phone cards here that would allow me to download Spanish verbs to my brain and from there to my tongue.

2007-08-16T15:26:00.000-06:00

Here are some notes I kept on my way to Xalapa and shortly after my arrival:

August 9, 2007
I’m on a plane to Dallas, where I’ll take another plane to Mexico City, and from there I’ll fly to Veracruz. My adventure begins. I’m more sleepy than excited though because I got only three hours of sleep last night. Packing and cleaning kept me up till 2am and got me back up at 5. I felt a little desperate about cramming everything into my two large suitcases (to be checked in) and one smaller bag and a tote to carry with me, but I managed. Thank goodness for my friend Sharon, who helped me get my suitcases zippered shut, no small feat, and me out the door.

We’re nearing Dallas, and I’ll soon be crossing the border into Mexico. The land below me is scarred by fractal patterns formed from water run-off.

5:40pm in the Mexico City airport
Lucky for me, my seat mate on the flight from Dallas to Mexico City guided me through Immigration and advised me to get a porter to take my bag and me to the correct gate—or rather to the correct general area. But having arrived at the place designated by the porter, I still don’t know which gate is mine. At Información, I was told that the gate will be announced on the marquee at 6pm although that’s the time designated on my boarding pass as the time of departure. Who knew? Obviously, people used to traveling in Mexico--but not me.

In two hours, I’ll be in my new home city and my new home.

August 10, 1:30am in my new apartment
Too excited, perplexed, thoughtful (i.e., full of thoughts) to sleep yet.

Isabel’s sister Margarita, her cousin Guillermo Joaquin, and Margarita’s 9-year-old daughter Miriam Harmonia were there to meet me at the Veracruz airport when I arrived a little before 8pm. They made me feel welcome immediately, and they spoke slowly enough for me to understand their Spanish and listened patiently enough to understand mine.

We drove the 68 miles or so to Xalapa, and I took in my first view of the Veracruz countryside. It was lush and green all the way to Xalapa. The trip seemed short, perhaps because, as I learned from Joaquin, the speed limit on highways in Mexico is 90 mph, unlike the 75 mph speed limit on New Mexico interstates.

When we got to Xalapa, we stopped at a restaurant chosen to be the least upsetting to a newly-arrived-to-Mexico gringa’s stomach, a place called the California Restaurant. Margarita and Joaquin advised me to stick to cooked food and bottled water and avoid raw fruits and vegetables at first, so I ordered what turned out to be a delicious chicken soup with rice and some bottled water. I watched Margarita and Joaquin bring back various dishes from the buffet and enjoyed their choices vicariously. Miriam played on the MacDonald's-like playground while we ate.

After supper, they took me to my new home on Guerrero Street in the central area of Xalapa. Hauling my equipaje up the stairs was no easy matter, but after climbing two gentle flights of stairs, we arrived at the door of my apartment. I was delighted with it as soon as I walked in. It is comfortably furnished, with a nice-sized living room (with a dining room table at one end), a small kitchen, a large hallway that leads to a bedroom on either side of the hall, and the bathroom located half way between the living room and bedrooms of the apartment. The floors are of tile, and the cupboards in the kitchen and the closets in the bedrooms are of highly lacquered wood. AND as an added bonus, the mattresses on the beds are firm! It lacks only family and friends to move about in its rooms.
___
BRRRR! BRRRR! BRRRR!
I was jolted from my writing by a loud ringing sound coming from the front of the apartment. I jumped up from my bed, located the phone on the kitchen wall, and picked it up. The fellow on the other end was asking about someone named Olga from Norway who had recently lived in this apartment. I explained in my halting Spanish that Olga no longer lives here, and he explained in halting English that he was sorry for having disturbed me at such a late hour.

2007-08-05T10:20:00.000-06:00

I got back from the Fulbright Orientation last night at 9pm. I'm sitting here at my computer desk this morning, drinking iced coffeed and making a list of the roughly 14,376 tasks I need to complete before I leave the country on Thursday, August 9.

Isabel called me this morning on her new cell phone. My brother David and sister-in-law Carmen had taken Isabel and César shopping for a mobile phone plan and for groceries yesterday. I found out that the apartment manager didn't follow through on her promise to replace the broken Murphy bed in their apartment with a new one, however. Isabel said she will report the problem first thing on Monday morning.

I've been looking through some of my photos from the Orientation, remembering the wonderful people I met there, most especially the Mexican teachers and their families who are going to far-flung places in the U.S.--like Juan Antonio from Ensanada who will teach at a middle school in Minneapolis; Alma Salazar from Sonora who will teach at a high school in Maine; Fernando Alcantar from Mexico City who will also teach at a high school in Maine; Alfredo Jimenez from Puebla who will teach at middle school in New York state; Manual Luna from Mexico City who will teach at a middle school in Minneapolis; Rita Cano from Morelos who will teach middle school in Montana; Paolo Trejo from Mexico City who will teach at Cece Daniel's high school in Castle Rock, Colorado; Miguel Hernandez who will teach at a high school in Minneapolis; and María Villa of Mexico City who will teach in Halifax, Virginia.

2007-08-01T18:14:00.000-06:00

I’m writing this post from Alexandria, VA, where I arrived on Sunday, July 29, for the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Orientation. After landing at Reagan airport, I happened to run into Cece Daniels, whom I’d met at the spring Fulbright regional meeting in Denver in May. Cece is from Castle Rock, CO, and will be teaching in Mexico City.

On Sunday and Monday, the teachers from Mexico and from the U.S. who will be heading to each other’s countries met for a pre-Orientation meeting to better prepare us for the experience. The meeting was organized by Comexus, an acronym that signifies the cooperation between Mexico and the U.S. required to make our exchanges possible.

So, 0n Sunday evening, I met Isabel Gonzalez and her husband Cesar for the first time. A rather tall woman approached me smiling as I walked toward the meeting room, and I thought, “That can’t be Isabel—she’s too tall.” But she was Isabel! I don’t know why I’d thought she was short like me, but maybe (Cesar’s hypothesis) I inferred small stature from her soft voice on the phone. At any rate, Isabel and I hugged and introduced ourselves, and then she took me to meet Cesar. It was good to finally put faces to names and to get to know them a little over dinner.

2007-06-23T13:47:00.000-06:00

I finally looked carefully at the Proposed Assignment Form that Isabel sent me back in May. I had skimmed the document when I first received it, but today I really paid attention to the information it
contains--to wit:
Here's my fall teaching schedule at the Centro de Idiomas. The fall term begins for teachers on August 7 and ends February 8, 2008. The spring term begins February 8 and ends July 8, 2008. Each semester lasts 15 weeks--but "there are 2 periods between semesters called 'periodo intersemestral' when teachers must spend time at school or present a plan of work that can be done outside of school." I am not expected to be there by August 7, though, thank goodness, because I will be finishing up my term by submitting grades August 6 or 7 here at CNM.

I am expected to work 40 hours a week. In addition to the assignments above, I will also be expected to provide "support for checking spelling/grammar of some standard exams, support for
MEIF and EXAVER recordings."

My immediate supervisor will be Miguel Angel Murrieta Rosendo, Academic Coordinator. The head of the school is Luz del Carmen Rivas Morales. My mentor will be Esperanza Zamora Lara, and there are two other teachers who have agreed to help me as well: Rosa Elena Lopez Jimenez and Laura Gonzalez Oliveros.

I have an appointment to meet with Sr. Murrieta Rosendo on August 16, 10:00am, in his office in the Centro de Idiomas, located at Galeana Esq. 7 de Noviembre, CP 91000, Xalapa. (I don't know what CP 91000 means. Perhaps the numbers are similar to a zip code?) The purpose of the meeting is to meet him and my mentor, Sra. Zamora, to receive the textbooks I'll be using, and to learn my way around the center.

The Centro de Idiomas is part of the Universidad Veracruzana, but it's not located on the UV campus, I learned. It's actually located in downtown Xalapa. Students who attend "are of different
backgrounds: high school students, university students and professionals, they only attend here to take their language classes--that is one hour a day. Some university students take our courses to get credits in their studies."

I learned that the following equipment is available for teachers to check out in advance: "There are two laptops , overhead projector, one electronic board, [maybe this is like a SmartBoard?] VHS, TV, DVD and a self access Center to be used by the students."

In response to this question on the Proposed Assignment Form--"In your opinion, is there an aspect of life in your school/community to which a foreign teacher may have trouble adjusting?"--the following answer was given:

Maybe personal space: we Mexicans tend to get closer to people when we talk. Also Punctuality may be something to be considered since we Mexicans have the reputation of not being punctual ( not the case with school schedule but maybe with students arrival to classes or other “social” events. And of course paperwork or having to attend government offices. Which is really slow. But I don't think any of these aspects would be too serious to create trouble.

I experienced the smaller area of personal space--the space people keep between themselves and others when communicating--when I taught at the University of Texas at El Paso. When students, most of them from Juárez, came up to talk with me before or after class, they got closer to me than did my students at the Doña Ana Branch Community College just 47 miles away. At first, I found myself stepping back to re-establish my personal space--and then they would step forward to get closer. Finally, I got comfortable communicating with them at closer range.

As for the punctuality issue, I had to laugh. Last Thursday, I had lunch with Cynthia Woolley, a CNM instructor of ESL and GED who lived and taught in México for eight years. She suggested the Grove, a restaurant on Central. Shortly before we were to meet, I did a Google search for the place and ended up on the Albuquerque Convention and Visitors Bureau website, which provided a map to the Grove, showing it near 8th Street. By the time I figured out that the Grove wasn't located at 600 Central SW but SE, I was a good half hour late. I apologized first and then asked Cynthia if she thought I would fit well in México--referring to my timing--and she said I should fit right in. Also, my son Shane is always commenting on my [lack of] punctuality, so maybe I'm about to find my cultural home. (Nevertheless, I am punctual about arriving to my classes on time.)

An aside: Cynthia Woolley--who describes herself as "obsessed with México"--emailed me after our lunch to recommend several books:

Mexican Days by Tony Cohan
Guanajuato, Mexico (survival manual by Doug and Cindi Bower): "Much of the info on renting, etc., will pertain to Xalapa. They also stressed we should use the ATMs that take the whole card rather than swipe them, as people have been known to make false machines from that kind in order to steal acct. #s. --Not trying to get you paranoid, just prepared." (It's not just in México that such things hpappen, of course. There are plenty of ATM scams in this country.)

The U.S. State Department's "Tips for Travelers to Mexico" webpage advises that "U.S. citizens should be very cautious in general when using ATMs in Mexico. If an ATM must be used, it should be accessed only during the business day at large protected facilities (preferably inside commercial establishments, rather than at glass-enclosed, highly visible ATMs on streets). U.S. and Mexican citizens are sometimes accosted on the street and forced to withdraw money from their accounts using their ATM cards." The wording, "if an ATM must be used...," sounds ominous. But I have read elsewhere that getting cash from an ATM is the way to go when in México, allowing one to withdraw money deposited in the U.S. in pesos at a good rate of exchange.

In a Village Far Away by Catherine Finerty
Mexico, A Love Story (women write about Mexico) Camille Cusumano
Mexico in Mind by Maria Finn
A copy of the latest Lonely Planet guidebook on Mexico might be good to take as well - "that's my fave guide to Mexico."

2007-06-16T09:40:00.000-06:00

Finally, the letter from the Fulbright Foreign Scholarship Board that says, "It gives me great pleasure to congratulate you on your selection for a Fulbright award to Mexico." Correspondence until now has been tentative pending my submission of paperwork and acceptance of the information contained therein. So...finally, yippeee! Xalapa! Acquí vengo!

Here's a photo of my cat Fred, who will take on a new caretaker in my absence. He seems amenable, provided the next caretaker gives him his food on time--and the food he likes--while letting him in and out as he feels inclined, scratches his head when he desires it, and puts fresh water in the bathroom sink when he wants a drink.

That caretaker will be my friend Sharon, who is in the process of selling her house and wants to live in mine while the money from the sale of her house sits in the bank for a year. Of course, this plan is contingent on her selling the house before or fairly soon after I leave for México.

I've been looking for an apartment for Isabel and her husband César near CNM's Main Campus. Isabel tells me she would like to walk to work rather than take a bus. And Isabel has been looking for an apartment for me near the Centro de Idiomas in Xalapa. A few days ago, she emailed me about an ad in the paper for an apartment for rent that was located two blocks from the school, but I haven't heard from her since then, so I don't know whether she found it to be suitable.

I've told Isabel I'd like a sunny, two-bedroom apartment near the school so that I can walk there. She tells me the bus service in Xalapa isn't punctual and is usually very crowded. I don't mind the crowding, but I have to be able to get to work on time, so it sounds like I will need to walk. Riding a bike is out of the question, too, she tells me, because the traffic is "a real problem here."

I'm also starting to think about getting internet and phone access. The information I found on the Mexico 501: Learning to Live in Mexico blog makes it sound difficult to choose a cell phone service, but maybe it's because I don't know beans about cell phones. I'm more encouraged about what I read about internet access. I'll ask Isabel for her recommendations.

Another thing on my to-do list is to buy and send teaching-and-learning materials to a U.S. consulate near to Xalapa. The Fulbright Program will reimburse me for purchases up to $500 that will be stay in México when I leave.

Jennifer Herrin, a CNM ESL instructor who is currently living in the Ukraine on a year-long English Teacher Trainer fellowship (check out her blog, which recounts her adventures there) kindly sent me a long list of books she recommends, so I will start there. Also, other CNM ESL instructors--Amy Christensen, Tom Pierce, Bill Ancker, Carol Culver, and Penny Mortimer--and I fear I'm forgetting others--have shared favorite books and materials with me and offered advice. Now I just have to buy the stuff and ship it. Actually, $500 isn't a lot of money for books these days.

Bright idea! Start an English as a Foreign Language blog to store some of the resources others have suggested so far, and then when I get to Mexico, I can add to it and share it with my fellow EFL teaching colleagues at the Centro de Idiomas--and add their resources as well.

An aside: Awhile back, Jennifer and her husband Joe kindly compiled a top-ten list to help me prepare to go on my exchange:

1. Label all the boxes you pack with numbers; keep a list of what each numbered box has inside it. Recently, we needed a tax form retrieved and my Mom had a hell of a time finding it as I didn't put it in my list!

2. Bring souvenirs from NM to give as gifts (good ones are those litte NM calendars they sell at Walgreen's); they also have some good ones in Old Town at the souvenir shops. I go to Palms Trading Company and get pretty Indian-made pins (many people don't have pierced ears or are picky about gold/silver). Pins seem to be universally loved. Keychains are good for guys.

3. Bring a pack of "pretty" thank you cards. They sure come in handy for when people give you gifts or if you stay with someone.

4. Always pick up a business card where-ever you stayor go.

5. Ship yourself a box of paperbacks (Joe's tip). Start hitting the garage sales. There is usually aspecial rate to send books. I think they call it"media mail."

6. Keep in mind that you may not have a washing machine or dryer; so bring clothes that you wouldn't mind a housekeeper washing by hand and hanging on the line.

7. Bring dollar bills for tips when going through theairports, hotels, etc. It's a shame when you don't have a tip for someone who's helped you; also keepthem in a special pocket. Not near your "real" money.(If you don't have pesos, everyone loves a dollar bill.)

8. ATM cards work everywhere and you can draw Pesos on your account. At the airport, you can directly pull pesos instead of messing with changing money.

9. Bring your own business cards to hand out.

10. Make sure your digital camera has a one-Gig memory card; bring family pictures and pictures of your colleagues at work maybe? People are always curious...

The Fulbright Pre-departure Orientation, which is required of all exchange teachers, takes place in Alexandria, VA, from July 30 to August 3. I've already made my flight reservations and arrangements to stay with my brother Guy and his wife Carla, who live in Alexandria, rather than stay at the hotel where the orientation will take place.

Comexus, the U.S.-Mexico Commission for Educational and Cultural Exchange, also invited U.S. exchange teachers heading to Mexico to meet with Mexican exchange teachers for a pre-Pre-Departure Orientation meeting from July 29 to July 30, so I'll fly to Alexandria early on July 29 in order to attend the dinner and introductions that evening. This will be my first opportunity to meet Isabel and her husband.

2007-05-20T16:21:00.000-06:00

What was I thinking, not taking my camera when Lis Turkheimer--interim associate dean in my division--and I flew to Denver Friday evening for a regional Fulbright Spring Meeting the next day?

I could have taken photos of the Denver airport, which I find at once preposterous and ethereal. I probably wouldn't have taken photos of the Warwick Hotel where we stayed and where we had a tasty late supper, but I certainly would have taken photos of the people at the meeting itself.

Marilyn Turner, a Fulbright alumnus and meeting organizer, and Becky Ferguson, representing the USDA Grad School, which administers the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program in DC, served as facilitators of the meeting, along with Rick Barcus, another alumnus.

During break-out sessions, I met Cece Daniels, a high school teacher in Castle Rock, CO, who--I found out--will be teaching at a university in Mexico City, and she told me that other U.S. teachers will be teaching in D.F. as well. There will be a meeting of Fulbright exchange teachers there in the fall, Cece told me, so she and I will meet again in Mexico City. Cece also suggested that we might fly to DC together at the end of July.

Laura Zinke, a Fulbright alumnus who taught in Argentina for six months, was also part of our small break-out group, and I found what she had to say especially helpful and reassuring. For instance, she said she used her debit card nearly everywhere she went in Argentina, except in small villages. She also said she never did open an account in an Argentine bank, and like me, her bank is a credit union, not a huge multinational bank. Granted, Mexico is not Argentina, but I'm going to assume there are similarities. The issue of how to bank, handle money, and pay bills in México is a small thing, but there are so many small things to learn about and consider that they build in my mind into a small mountain.

Two other alumni--Rita Merrigan (Colombia) and Alison Trattner (Senegal)—advised me as well. Rita gave me the name and phone number of a friend of hers who lives in Xalapa and who has friends at the university. Alison gave me suggestions related to teaching English as a foreign language and emphasized the importance of person-to-person connections.

I was also grateful to the three international teachers who came to the meeting to share their experiences as exchange teachers at high schools in this country: Ndiaye Aissatou of Senegal, Franz Castro of Colombia, and Nelly Membre of France. Listening to them describe their experiences in this country made me glad I teach at the college level where the students are adults, parents aren't involved, and academic freedom is assumed.

I had to leave the meeting about an hour early to catch the airport shuttle Saturday afternoon. Unlike the shuttle on Friday when the van was packed, the van was empty this time except for Lis and me. And this time, we could see the Rockies--its farther peaks topped with snow--bordering the high grassy plains as we were shuttled along I-70 to the airport.

I had time to read The Course of Mexican History by Meyer and Sherman at the airport and during the flight back. This is one of the books I bought on the recommendation of the Fulbright Program, and I'm really enjoying it.

My friend Sharon picked me up at the airport, and we went to Sadie’s for chile con queso and supper. I was really tired by the time we left, and I slept the sleep of the just soon after I laid my head on my own pillow.

2007-05-07T11:11:00.000-06:00

I just opened an email from Isabel Gonzales in Xalapa and read the words I've wanted to read: Isabel and her husband César have decided to accept the exchange, to come to Albuquerque for a year while I go to Xalapa.

Isabel has had the same concerns about Albuquerque that I had about Mexicali. She wants to be immersed in English and not surrounded by Spanish speakers, so she has been concerned about the number of Latinos here. I've tried to reassure her that she will be immersed in English at work and in the stores and through the media here. I was interested to learn that Isabel likes "Grey's Anatomy" as I do, but in Xalapa, the characters speak in dubbed Spanish; here she will have to watch it in English.

Now that I know the exchange is going to happen, I need to get down to earth: the list of things to do to get ready to leave house, family, friends, job, and country for a year seems pretty daunting, but I have no doubt that--like making wedding plans--eventually everything gets done (or not) and the wedding day dawns.

Tomorrow evening I'll call Isabel so that we can begin to plan in earnest. Luckily, the Fulbright folks have sent a "Handbook for Partner Discussion" with page after page of topics that exchange partners should address with each other about the new work, home, and cultural situations they will find themselves in for a year.

Amazing! I'm so excited at the possibilities opening up to me...

2007-04-10T08:51:00.000-06:00

Yesterday afternoon, I met with Sally Pearson, CNM vice president of academic affairs, as per the instructions I received in the information packet from the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program. I found out she'd already scheduled a meeting with my dean, Gerry McBroom, for this Wednesday, and at that time, they'll determine the appropriateness of my proposed exchange partner. Once [if] they agree Isabel Gonzalez-Macias is a good fit for CNM, I can contact her and start preparing to live and teach in Xalapa, México, for a year--assuming that the administrators at Universidad Veracruzana deterimine that I would fit well there as well.

Then yesterday evening, I met Sherry Holmen and her husband Lyle and kids Luke, 17, and Megan, 8, at Padillas' Restaurant to pick their brains about living outside the country for a year. Sherry has had two Fulbright exchanges, both to Great Britain. My two big questions to them were (1) how do I get ready to leave the country for a year? and (2) what do I take with me?

The Holmens exchanged houses with Sherry's exchange partners in both instances, so they didn't have to take household goods with them. I don't know if that will be the case for me. The Fulbright information says that housing exchanges in México can be "difficult" in part because Mexicans typically live with extended family members, which--I'm inferring, based on my own concerns--may not meet the privacy needs of folks from the U.S.

I plan to follow Luke's advice on what to take: pack as if for a long vacation. I had imagined (without thinking it through) that I would need to send boxes of household goods and appliances to myself in México, but not so. Duh. If I need stuff, I can buy it there.

Sherry said something especially interesting--that I should be prepared to experience culture shock on my return to this country. She said she had at least as much difficulty re-entering the U.S. culture as leaving it, an unexpected reaction that hit her on her second day back, in Walmart where she'd driven after having not driven a car for a year in England.

All of the Holmens agreed their time abroad was a great experience and lament that they have few outlets for their stories of adventure out of the country. Friends and colleagues who haven't had a similar experience of living or traveling outside the country often can't relate. "After about five minutes," Lyle said, "their eyes just glaze over."

And finally, Sherry, Lyle, Luke, and Megan encouraged me to approach my exchange with a spirit of adventure and open-mindedness. They assured me that I'll make cultural mistakes but will be forgiven for my ignorance.

2007-04-06T11:57:00.000-06:00

My friend Anne Bryson, visiting from Philadelphia, and I were eating breakfast at my dining room table this morning when I spied a Fed-Ex truck parking in front of my house and a moment later the guy bringing a small rectangular package to my door.

When I opened it, I found a familiar-looking manila envelope with a familiar-looking address in the left-hand corner: Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program. Hallelujah! Another proposed exchange, again in Mexico! I thought I would have to wait much longer--and perhaps wait fruitlessly--for another possible exchange.

This time I knew what to do to find out the location of the proposed exchange: I called the office of the Vice President for Academic Affairs at CNM and asked Louise Scherffius, executive secretary, to see if a Fulbright packet had been received in the President's office. She called me back a couple hours later to give me the news: the proposed exchange location is at the Universidad Veracruzana in Xalapa, Veracruz!

I quickly googled "Xalapa Mexico" and found its location on a map: 64 miles west of Veracruz, a port city on the Gulf of Mexico, and 187 miles east of Mexico City. It's a university town (three of 'em) with a population of 387,000 as of the 2000 census. (Read more about Xalapa on Wikipedia.) My exchange partner teaches at the Centro de Idiomas, Universidad Veracruzana, in Xalapa.

Xalapa sounds wonderful to me! Now I must wait and see if my exchange parnter's school and mine agree that the exchange would be beneficial to both institutions.

I'm trying to restrain myself from running down the halls and shouting the news. But it's Good Friday afternoon, so there's hardly anyone here on the fifth floor of Max Salazar Hall to share my good news with anyway.

2007-03-27T22:20:00.000-06:00

I discovered last Friday that my proposed exchange match is located in Mexicali, Baja California, México.

"Where is that?" you ask.

Well, I quickly learned--via a Google search--that it's located directly across from Calexico, California. In short, Mexicali is a border town, two hours east of Tijuana and San Diego.

It didn't take me any time to decide that I would prefer to stay put here in Albuquerque rather than go to Mexicali. Not that I have anything against this city of 650,000, nor would I object to teaching at the Universidad Autonoma de Baja California.

My reason for declining this exchange, as I stated in an email to Sonia Barré of the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program, is that "I lived for over 20 years in another near-the-border town, Las Cruces, NM, 45 minutes from Juárez, Chihuahua, México, and for three years I commuted to the University of Texas at El Paso whose campus overlooks the Rio Grande and an outlying barrio of Juárez At UTEP I taught English to Speakers of Other Languages, and my students were Mexican students from Juárez. I also worked for a short time at a Juárez language school. It was my experience of living and working close to the Mexican border that made me want to know México--its people, culture, and geography--more deeply and authentically, that is, away from the US border."

I heard from Sonia by email the next day: "Thank you for getting back to us so quickly about this. I'll be sure to contact the necessary parties and place your application back into the matching pool."

I'm somewhat heartened by Sonia's reply. I did ask her earlier, before I received the proposed match, whether refusing a match would prevent me from getting another. She said that it would lessen my chances but that my name would go back in the hat.

So I still have hope.

2007-03-23T09:52:00.000-06:00

A week and a day since receiving my notice of a possible Fulbright exchange partner in México, I still don't know where in México I might be headed. But I did receive a phone call from Sonia at the Fulbright office in DC this morning, returning my calls of yesterday, to let me know that the packet of information containing the crucial details of my life and fortune in the coming academic year was sent to the office of CNM's president, Michael Glennon, instead of to the Academic Affairs Vice President's office. So I called Louise Scherffius, the vice president's executive secretary, and she volunteered to walk over to the president's office and get the packet. Surely I'll find out today where I'll be living and teaching.

2007-03-17T16:53:00.000-06:00

Another manila envelope from the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program arrived in the mail Friday--this one bulging and torn. I knew it had to mean good news: a match! "Where will I be going?" was the question on my mind as I hurriedly unlocked my front door and carried the envelope into the kitchen to open it with kitchen shears.

On top of the other printed materials was the letter stating that "I'm happy to propose you for a year-long direct exchange of teaching assignments with Ms. Arriola Fernandez de Castro of Mexico throught the Fulbight Teacher Exchange Program during the 2007-2008 academic year."

Mexico! For a few minutes, I felt disappointed. Huh? What was up with that? How could I feel disappointment? After all, Mexico had been my first choice. It's been a dream of mine for many years to live and learn Spanish in Mexico.

As I leafed through the brochures and handbook that came with the letter, I demanded an explanation from myself What I realized then was that I had decided almost as soon as I applied for the Fulbright Exchange that Mexico was a really long shot and that I was unlikely to be able to teach there. I'd read on the Fulbright Web site that Mexico was looking for "Spanish-language and/or ESL teachers from the junior high, senior high, or community college levels." And although I'd taught ESOL [English for Speakers of Other Languages] composition and grammar classes at the University of Texas at El Paso (UTEP) for three years, I've never had any ESL training.

Before listing Mexico as my first choice on my application, I had emailed Ann Koepke, Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program Outreach Specialist, for more information:

I plan to apply to the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program, with Mexico as my preferred country. I'm confused about whether teachers other than language teachers can expect to be placed in Mexico. The web site does say that "Priority will be given to language teachers."

She replied:

The likelihood of a non-language teacher being placed in Mexico is based on the applicant pool from Mexico. I would encourage you to apply and see what the outcome may be.

So, I listed Mexico as my first choice but emotionally kissed it goodbye. I figured it just wasn't going to happen.

I then shifted my focus on my second and third choices--the United Kingdom [Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales, in that order] and Hungary, respectively. I started to imagine what it would be like to live in Europe for a year. Oh, the things I could see and do! I began to imagine traveling around Europe and seeing everything. I imagined my family and friends coming to visit me and how we would travel to the country of their dreams.

So the letter I read yesterday interrupted those imaginings. My fantasies of living in Europe for a year were dashed. I was going to Mexico instead.

But "think about it, darlin'," I exhorted myself. "Why did you list Mexico first in the first place? Surely there was a good reason!"

And then I remembered: I want to experience and learn about a culture very different from my own. I want to learn more Spanish. I want to travel around Mexico and see its sights--cities, mountains, oceans, and ancient ruins--and get to know its people. And I want to be on the same continent as my aging mother so that, if I need to to, I can be with her in five hours instead of thirteen.

And then I started to imagine my family and friends visiting me in Mexico: Oh, the things we can see and do! And I imagined living in a place that will crack open my lifelong habits, expectations, and ideas. Woo-hoo! I'll be seeing life from a new point on Earth, one that calls into question much that I have taken for granted for the past 60 years, a place that will require me to find new words in a different language to express my feelings, thoughts, and desires.

And now I'm excited and happy again to think about living in México for a year. May it come to pass!

By the way, the letter didn't tell me where I'll be teaching! I have to get that information from CNM's Vice President for Academic Affairs, Sally Pearson, on Monday. I'm not sure why I wasn't told directly since I will find out from Sally. Perhaps they don't want candidates to contact each other directly except through the auspices of their respective schools.

My school, Central New Mexico Community College, and my possible exchange partner's school must review and approve the proposed exchange candidate and send off the official paperwork before I'll receive a letter of acceptance to the program.

Wow! The adventure begins. I bookmarked a blog I came across not long ago called "Mexico 501: Learning live in Mexico." Now I'll study it in earnest.

2007-02-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

The manila envelope stuffed into my mailbox this past Saturday said "Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program" in the left-hand corner. I hesitated just a moment before opening it--what if I wasn't accepted? What if the envelope held a form letter politely telling me "no"?

Enough doubt. I ripped open the envelope and skimmed the letter quickly, searching for the word "congratulations" in the first paragraph. I panicked a little when I didn't find it and then forced myself to read the paragraph carefully. In rather subdued language, the letter stated, "The peer review commitee has recommended you for an exchange if a match is found."

I've been accepted! At that moment, I wanted to run next door and across the street to tell my neighbors, none of whom I know very well, to share my news.

Instead, I read the rest of the letter:

We are currently in the process of matching U.S. and international applicants and will notify those candidates for whom we find matches beginning in March and continuing through early May.
...
If you have not been matched, we will send you written notificiation in early June.

My enthusiam fizzled when I contemplated the long wait and the possibility of not finding a match. But then I soothed myself with my mantra: "All things are possible. I have a good chance." And that mantra, that thought, that hope, inflated my elation once again.

And that's where I am today: hopeful, elated, waiting.

2006-11-15T21:41:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, November 11, 2006, I interviewed for the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program. I won't know the results until January, 2007, but I'm hopeful that (1) I'll be accepted to the program, and (2) an exchange instructor will be found in a country that I'd like to live. My first three choices are as follows:

Mexico
United Kingdom (Ireland, Great Britain, Scotland, or Wales--in that order)
Hungary

2005-06-15T12:48:00.000-06:00

Opera Gems Gallery: "Au fond du temple saint "

2003-08-13T10:35:00.000-06:00

Oh, why not. I'll add my voice to the din, launch my slim blog into the Sea of Blogs.

I await the day when virtual time is developed for use in virtual spaces so that we can reserve our small quota of real time for our real lives. Right now we pay for our time on the internet with coins and bills--minutes and hours--withdrawn from our real-time trust fund, the total of which is almost always withheld from us.

I also look forward to the day when we can create olfactory files to go with our video and audio files. Imagine being able to wake up and smell the coffee with the click of a link.