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.

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.

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.
----

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.

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."

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.

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.