Friday night. I'm going dancing. None of my Mexican friends is able to accompany me, but they've all assured me that it's safe to go by myself -- as long as I don't stay out past midnight, dress too provocatively, or ask anyone to dance.
Dressed in a cute (but unprovocative) skirt, with beads dangling from the hem, and a short-sleeved top that would be immodest, were it not for the camisole underneath, I head to the subway. In the few minutes that I wait for the train, I recognize one of the dance instructors from whom I've taken a lesson in the park, and he recognizes me.
He looks more like a bodybuilder than a dancer, but he might be both. I don't intend to ask, as he might misinterpret my intentions. He asks if I'm on my way to the park and explains that he's about to teach a class there. When I say that I'm going to put into practice what I've learned from him, at Salon Hidalgo, he tells me that there's another place I should go, with a better crowd, better music, and better dancing. He offers to take me there, himself, another day and requests my phone number. I tell him that I don't have one and suggest that we get a group together to go. We part ways, as I change trains and he leaves the station.
It's about 6:15 when I arrive at the dance hall. I've got a subway ticket and 170 pesos in my pocket -- more than enough for what I anticipate will be a $6.00 admission charge, a soft drink or two, and cab fare, should I need it. I quickly discover, however, that a well-known group is performing, and the entry fee is 130 pesos, leaving me with barely enough to buy a bottle of water and tip the waiter. I ask the guy at the door if it's really 130 pesos to get in (when on Wednesday night, it cost me 10), and he says yes. I ask if the band will be playing salsa and he says yes. I weigh my options: should I spend it all and hope to get my money's worth of dancing or should I return to the hotel, watch CNN, and munch the rest of the spicy fried beans in my room?
I pay and enter.
I walk up the stairs and into the huge room. The dance floor is already crowded with couples cumbia-ing to the live music. I look for people I know but don't find any. What I do find are lots of reserved tables. A waiter ushers me to the last row, last seat of a table already occupied by two women and a couple. I sit through three dances, and the possibility dawns and dusks on me that nobody will ask me to dance.
The bar is right behind me, and I smile at the bartender. He looks like a gentleman and a scholar, well, mostly like a scholar, so I get up and ask if it's true that I shouldn't ask anyone to dance. He confirms that men would think I was a brazen hussy for doing so. (He doesn't exactly say "brazen hussy," but I know what he means.)
Aloud, I bemoan my fate. "I might not get to dance at all!"
"Don't worry," my new best bartender beassures me. "I've got a friend who'll dance with you."
Three dances later, I'm stepping on the toes of his friend. Ten minutes afterwards, I'm being churned around the dance floor by one of his relatives. One dance each is apparently enough for both of these guys; I never see them again. I figure that, at the present rate, I'll dance twice more during the evening -- if the bartender hasn't already run out of friends, relatives, and acquaintances.
The bartender calls me over. "Look," he says, "the crowd is just filtering in. Before you know it, there will be so many men asking you to dance, you won't have a chance to catch your breath."
I catch my breath so many times and for so long that I think it'll never escape.
The temperature ratchets up. My table's empty seats fill up with a bunch of women, who are being whisked onto the dance floor. The band plays on, its catchy rhythms making me all but bounce in my chair. Lots of men are just standing around, for Pete's (or should I say Pedro's) sake, and I'm seriously considering breaking the Don't ask them taboo.... I really want to dance!
Suddenly, an overweight, elderly señor taps me on the shoulder and leads me onto the dance floor. We have roughly eight inches to maneuver in, and I still get stepped on and elbowed by the couples surrounding us. When the song ends, my partner requests the favor of another dance. I grant it, but when he starts gazing at me as if he were a bloodhound and I were the scent he was following, I thank him and return to my table.
My next partner is a sweaty, polyester-suited 50-ish fellow, who keeps being reminded by the waiters that we're dancing "outside the lines." Unfortunately, every time we move into the dance zone, we are batted about like sparrows in a tornado by the dancers on all sides. When the number ends, my partner escorts me back to the table, pulls out my chair, and thanks me.
The bloodhound returns. I keep inserting my arm between us to keep him at a distance. The press of other bodies makes this rather difficult. I feel like the filling in a human sandwich.
Bloodhound wants to keep dancing. I refuse. He asks when I'll dance with him again. It's 8pm, and I tell him 9:45. He looks at me with bloodshot, older-dog eyes and promises he'll be back.
It's time to make friends, with the aim of gaining protection. I've already told my dance partners that I came with a group of girlfriends, so now I have to make it so. I've been chatting with one or another of the women at my table whenever we've not been dancing. We've shared partial life stories and recipes. We've commented on the unbearable heat, referred to the weight reduction brought on by dancing and enhanced by profuse perspiration, parsed out the little napkins on the table to mop our sweaty brows, and taken turns trying to cool each other down with the fans they've been smart enough to bring with them. I confess that I'm using them as human shields, and they tell me to go right ahead. They'll even make sure I get to the metro safely and accompany me to the station where we'll switch trains.
By the time my lovely new friends and I leave (10:30), I've danced more than my money's worth. I've also been propositioned by my three steady partners -- each of whom insisted that he would be perfectly willing to give up his wonderful life as a truck driver, taco-maker, and embalmer (respectively) to follow me to the US, if only I were willing.
I weren't and I amn't.
Friday, July 31, 2009
All I Wanna Do Is Dance! (Mexico City)
I've never been athletic. Throughout my school years (k-12), I developed my mind by trying to figure out ways to avoid physical education (PE) class. Why? Well, here are some examples:
Rope climbing: a downer.
Calisthenics: catastrophic.
Square dancing: embarrassing, square, and you call this dancing?
Dodgeball: ouch.
The only things I performed well in were the annual President's Fitness Test (I'm great at sit-ups -- although the days following the test were always painful) and running.
As a matter of fact, I loved to run and was quite fast. In grade school, I was one hell of a sprinter. I even competed, that is until the other girls' leg length outstripped my total height.
The height of PH (physical horror) for me were the requirements at my Alma mater. Colgate University had just gone co-ed the year before I attended, and I saw those years of PE classes as the revenge of the faculty and students who had always planned for the school to remain all-male.
I signed up for bowling as many times as I could. I'd start out each semester with a score of 50-60 and, by the end of the course, I'd sometimes bowl a 110. Once I even made 150!
I also took a class in running, which should have been listed in the course catalog as Let's Get Rid of the Girls, Fat Kids, and Wimps Quick 101. Turns out that running five miles at a clip (fast or slow) was only part of the torture. We had to lift weights, too. It also turns out that, although I'm no athlete, I am competitive, and there's no way I wasn't going to complete those runs or lift those dumbbells (and I am not referring to the jerks in my class). I made it through and went back to bowling (a 59).
The worst part for me, however, was the swimming requirement. A woman, whose son had drowned, had donated a large amount of moolah to Colgate with one proviso: In order to graduate, everyone had to tread water for five minutes; swim umpteen (or maybe four) laps across the Olympic-sized swimming pool, using two or more different strokes; and float on his or her back for what seemed like forever.
Now, although I'm an Aquarius, I'm no water baby. I grew up with not-so-fond memories of almost drowning in a swimming pool one summer vacation and of almost drowning in the ocean on another summer vacation. I think water is great in bottles when you're thirsty and in showers when you're dirty. Waterfalls are beautiful to view from a distance, even better in a photo! So, imagine my dismay when I found out that what was standing in the way of me and my diploma was a pool of water that my stream of consciousness was telling me I didn't want to jump into.
I had to dedicate many a semester to learning to swim. Floating was no problem. As a person of the female persuasion, I have built-in life savers that keep me uplifted (at least in a pool). I learned to dog paddle until I was dog-tired. I conquered the sidestroke, too, with relative ease, if not grace. The real rub was that I needed another stroke to keep me afloat. As I really don't like putting my face in the water and, as I was unable to coordinate my kicks with my arm movements, the butterfly and breast strokes were unmanageable. I got by on my backstroke (although those of you who've ever walked with me have the good sense to know that you should always be on the inside if we're on a cliff because, otherwise, I will end up forcing you off, although I certainly don't mean to do so, can imagine how I swam my laps -- sort of on the diagonal).
After graduation, life in Manhattan gave me no PE requirements, however, as anti-exercise as I was, I joined a gym. I lifted weights (Take that, Colgate guys!), did calisthenics(!), and swam(!). I even took a yoga class, which I really hated because it made me so tense.
For some inexplicable reason, I started racewalking. Racewalking, for those in the no-know, is a way to walk faster than slow runners run, while looking totally ridiculous. You always keep one foot (or maybe two?) on the ground, sort of rolling from the ball to the heel, and you swing your arms in a fashion that makes you look like a lunatic and makes people get out of your way, so it works out quite well in the end.
I racewalked until I broke out into a run again. I started jogging around an indoor track at lunchtime with some of my coworkers. I also started running outside with the guy I would eventually marry. Unfortunately, I matched my strides to his. As he is 6'2" tall and I am 5'1" small, I ended up blowing out my knees.
Over the years I've tried other forms of exercise, joining gyms and taking low-impact aerobics classes, following home exercise tapes, riding stationary bikes, and so on. Basically hating it all and making it my mission to avoid the E-word.
Only within the last four years, and thanks to my previous trips to Mexico, have I discovered the only type of E that I really love: dancing. And I've become addicted.
At home I take two classes a week and try to spend an hour or two, afterwards, actually dancing. In Mexico, I've been taking classes and/or dancing nearly every day.
Okay, I'll never be great. I'm only as good as my partner makes me look. But here's the thing. When I dance, I'm not thinking about what I did or didn't do 15 minutes ago, yesterday, last month, last year, or in a previous lifetime. I'm not planning for the future. I'm not stressed out, not done in. I'm in the moment. I'm in the zone. I don't think, therefore I am. And it's really the only time I am what I am: light, floating, high on life, completely happy.
Rope climbing: a downer.
Calisthenics: catastrophic.
Square dancing: embarrassing, square, and you call this dancing?
Dodgeball: ouch.
The only things I performed well in were the annual President's Fitness Test (I'm great at sit-ups -- although the days following the test were always painful) and running.
As a matter of fact, I loved to run and was quite fast. In grade school, I was one hell of a sprinter. I even competed, that is until the other girls' leg length outstripped my total height.
The height of PH (physical horror) for me were the requirements at my Alma mater. Colgate University had just gone co-ed the year before I attended, and I saw those years of PE classes as the revenge of the faculty and students who had always planned for the school to remain all-male.
I signed up for bowling as many times as I could. I'd start out each semester with a score of 50-60 and, by the end of the course, I'd sometimes bowl a 110. Once I even made 150!
I also took a class in running, which should have been listed in the course catalog as Let's Get Rid of the Girls, Fat Kids, and Wimps Quick 101. Turns out that running five miles at a clip (fast or slow) was only part of the torture. We had to lift weights, too. It also turns out that, although I'm no athlete, I am competitive, and there's no way I wasn't going to complete those runs or lift those dumbbells (and I am not referring to the jerks in my class). I made it through and went back to bowling (a 59).
The worst part for me, however, was the swimming requirement. A woman, whose son had drowned, had donated a large amount of moolah to Colgate with one proviso: In order to graduate, everyone had to tread water for five minutes; swim umpteen (or maybe four) laps across the Olympic-sized swimming pool, using two or more different strokes; and float on his or her back for what seemed like forever.
Now, although I'm an Aquarius, I'm no water baby. I grew up with not-so-fond memories of almost drowning in a swimming pool one summer vacation and of almost drowning in the ocean on another summer vacation. I think water is great in bottles when you're thirsty and in showers when you're dirty. Waterfalls are beautiful to view from a distance, even better in a photo! So, imagine my dismay when I found out that what was standing in the way of me and my diploma was a pool of water that my stream of consciousness was telling me I didn't want to jump into.
I had to dedicate many a semester to learning to swim. Floating was no problem. As a person of the female persuasion, I have built-in life savers that keep me uplifted (at least in a pool). I learned to dog paddle until I was dog-tired. I conquered the sidestroke, too, with relative ease, if not grace. The real rub was that I needed another stroke to keep me afloat. As I really don't like putting my face in the water and, as I was unable to coordinate my kicks with my arm movements, the butterfly and breast strokes were unmanageable. I got by on my backstroke (although those of you who've ever walked with me have the good sense to know that you should always be on the inside if we're on a cliff because, otherwise, I will end up forcing you off, although I certainly don't mean to do so, can imagine how I swam my laps -- sort of on the diagonal).
After graduation, life in Manhattan gave me no PE requirements, however, as anti-exercise as I was, I joined a gym. I lifted weights (Take that, Colgate guys!), did calisthenics(!), and swam(!). I even took a yoga class, which I really hated because it made me so tense.
For some inexplicable reason, I started racewalking. Racewalking, for those in the no-know, is a way to walk faster than slow runners run, while looking totally ridiculous. You always keep one foot (or maybe two?) on the ground, sort of rolling from the ball to the heel, and you swing your arms in a fashion that makes you look like a lunatic and makes people get out of your way, so it works out quite well in the end.
I racewalked until I broke out into a run again. I started jogging around an indoor track at lunchtime with some of my coworkers. I also started running outside with the guy I would eventually marry. Unfortunately, I matched my strides to his. As he is 6'2" tall and I am 5'1" small, I ended up blowing out my knees.
Over the years I've tried other forms of exercise, joining gyms and taking low-impact aerobics classes, following home exercise tapes, riding stationary bikes, and so on. Basically hating it all and making it my mission to avoid the E-word.
Only within the last four years, and thanks to my previous trips to Mexico, have I discovered the only type of E that I really love: dancing. And I've become addicted.
At home I take two classes a week and try to spend an hour or two, afterwards, actually dancing. In Mexico, I've been taking classes and/or dancing nearly every day.
Okay, I'll never be great. I'm only as good as my partner makes me look. But here's the thing. When I dance, I'm not thinking about what I did or didn't do 15 minutes ago, yesterday, last month, last year, or in a previous lifetime. I'm not planning for the future. I'm not stressed out, not done in. I'm in the moment. I'm in the zone. I don't think, therefore I am. And it's really the only time I am what I am: light, floating, high on life, completely happy.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Snapshots (Cuernavaca)
Two weeks in Cuernavaca have gone by in a blink of an eye, a shrug of a shoulder, a tick of a lip, a slip of a tongue. This is the fourth time (9 weeks total) I've been here to study, and I've been to just about every tourist attraction at least thrice. So, I spend my weekday mornings in class with my favorite teacher, Gregorio (nickname: Goyo), and a small group of Spanish teachers or others whose Spanish is as good as or better than mine.
Highlights:
Taking dance lessons with the rubber-legged teacher who says that every series of steps he teaches us is easier than the one we just tried to learn. He lies.
Drinking hot chocolate in a cafe with Goyo. The walls feature paintings by a French artist whose "language is color." After I learn Arabic and Mandarin, I want to speak in colors...
Stopping in at the Brady Museum --my umpteenth visit. The former home of an eclectic, gay (although no one says so), American ex-pat, who acquired an impressive collection of artwork (a Frida Kahlo, several Diego Riveras, art by Toulouse Lautrec, and other famousisimo artists), crucifixes, folkart and antiques (from Mexico, Haiti, Africa, and Asia) and more, remains as it was when he lived there. One of the bedrooms was decorated for and used by Robert Brady's friend, Josephine Baker (the famous dancer-stripper). The talavera-tiled bathrooms were admired even by my then-16-year old son, when we first visited.
Spending time in the zocalo, the true town center. Bordered by the imposing Palacio de Cortes, with its Diego Rivera murals, at the rear; rung by cafes, restaurants and the municipal building. A towering statue of Morelos is a meeting spot for the tattooed and pierced and a landmark for tourists. There's a tremendous open space for concerts and performing clowns. Wrought iron benches, some shielded from the brutal sunlight by the branches of trees, are crammed with kissing couples. You can buy all sorts of fried stuff, from potato chips to thin, orange, pretzel-shaped or even orangier cheez-doodle-shaped dough and ask for a healthy spritz of lime and a hearty spray of spicy chili sauce. Vendors hawk handicrafts (colorful textiles and ceramics, clothing and mini plastic chickens, CDs and films, roses of unimaginable and highly unnatural colors). Older folks danzon with grace and dignity. A circle of younger people burns incense and dances the steps of their Aztec ancestors. Dreadlocked youngsters braid yarn into their clients' hair or apply temporary tattoos. Skateboarders skateboard; Mariachis mariach; breakdancers, well, try. Double-decker buses await tourists. Men play chess at two tables near stands selling how-to books and painters selling still lifes. Little street children, dusty and ragged, loudly scream obscenities as they chase each other through the greenery; tinier street children sell chiclets or jewelry. Three generations of families stroll along, eating: corn on the cob, speared on a stick and slathered with mayonnaise, chili, lime and salt, or custard cones from McDonald's, or sugar-dusted churros (long, thin doughnuts), or gelatin in pretty shapes and multi-colored layers, or shaved ices in flavors such as guayaba, mango, and tamarind. A thin man with high cheekbones, thin lipped and nosed, dressed in cowboy hat, plaid shirt and jeans, holds his head in his hands, as if the weight of the world rests on his hunched, knobby shoulders. Young men preen. Nose, eyebrow, lip, tongue and chin pierced teens laugh in twos, threes, and mores.
Eating food prepared by P., the señora with whom I stay whenever I'm in town: Chayotes (squash) stuffed with cheese, breaded, and sauteed. Huitzoncles (a kind of herb, maybe? You break off a branchlet and remove the leaves with your teeth). Chicken in mole or green sauce. Eggs scrambled with tortilla strips -- the Mexican taste equivalent of matzoh brei.
Dancing salsa outside of Los Arcos. My partner, overweight but light on his feet, turns to me after watching the dance teachers and professionals swivel and swirl. "They dance pretty," he says, "but you dance tasty."
Highlights:
Taking dance lessons with the rubber-legged teacher who says that every series of steps he teaches us is easier than the one we just tried to learn. He lies.
Drinking hot chocolate in a cafe with Goyo. The walls feature paintings by a French artist whose "language is color." After I learn Arabic and Mandarin, I want to speak in colors...
Stopping in at the Brady Museum --my umpteenth visit. The former home of an eclectic, gay (although no one says so), American ex-pat, who acquired an impressive collection of artwork (a Frida Kahlo, several Diego Riveras, art by Toulouse Lautrec, and other famousisimo artists), crucifixes, folkart and antiques (from Mexico, Haiti, Africa, and Asia) and more, remains as it was when he lived there. One of the bedrooms was decorated for and used by Robert Brady's friend, Josephine Baker (the famous dancer-stripper). The talavera-tiled bathrooms were admired even by my then-16-year old son, when we first visited.
Spending time in the zocalo, the true town center. Bordered by the imposing Palacio de Cortes, with its Diego Rivera murals, at the rear; rung by cafes, restaurants and the municipal building. A towering statue of Morelos is a meeting spot for the tattooed and pierced and a landmark for tourists. There's a tremendous open space for concerts and performing clowns. Wrought iron benches, some shielded from the brutal sunlight by the branches of trees, are crammed with kissing couples. You can buy all sorts of fried stuff, from potato chips to thin, orange, pretzel-shaped or even orangier cheez-doodle-shaped dough and ask for a healthy spritz of lime and a hearty spray of spicy chili sauce. Vendors hawk handicrafts (colorful textiles and ceramics, clothing and mini plastic chickens, CDs and films, roses of unimaginable and highly unnatural colors). Older folks danzon with grace and dignity. A circle of younger people burns incense and dances the steps of their Aztec ancestors. Dreadlocked youngsters braid yarn into their clients' hair or apply temporary tattoos. Skateboarders skateboard; Mariachis mariach; breakdancers, well, try. Double-decker buses await tourists. Men play chess at two tables near stands selling how-to books and painters selling still lifes. Little street children, dusty and ragged, loudly scream obscenities as they chase each other through the greenery; tinier street children sell chiclets or jewelry. Three generations of families stroll along, eating: corn on the cob, speared on a stick and slathered with mayonnaise, chili, lime and salt, or custard cones from McDonald's, or sugar-dusted churros (long, thin doughnuts), or gelatin in pretty shapes and multi-colored layers, or shaved ices in flavors such as guayaba, mango, and tamarind. A thin man with high cheekbones, thin lipped and nosed, dressed in cowboy hat, plaid shirt and jeans, holds his head in his hands, as if the weight of the world rests on his hunched, knobby shoulders. Young men preen. Nose, eyebrow, lip, tongue and chin pierced teens laugh in twos, threes, and mores.
Eating food prepared by P., the señora with whom I stay whenever I'm in town: Chayotes (squash) stuffed with cheese, breaded, and sauteed. Huitzoncles (a kind of herb, maybe? You break off a branchlet and remove the leaves with your teeth). Chicken in mole or green sauce. Eggs scrambled with tortilla strips -- the Mexican taste equivalent of matzoh brei.
Dancing salsa outside of Los Arcos. My partner, overweight but light on his feet, turns to me after watching the dance teachers and professionals swivel and swirl. "They dance pretty," he says, "but you dance tasty."
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Backlog: Queen of the Hill (Oaxaca)
A former student of mine, G., has asked me to visit his mother. She hasn't seen him in about 10 years, the time he's spent working his way from dishwasher to busboy to cook and part-owner of a well reviewed Mexican restaurant in Richmond. Reina (translation: Queen) runs her own eatery and would love to have me stop by, G. says. He'll call to let her know when I'll be in town.
T. looks up the address on a street map. The exact street (la prolongacion de whatever) isn't listed, but he knows, more or less, where it's located -- in the toniest section of Oaxaca. A., T, and I agree to eat lunch there.
We hop into T.'s truck and bounce along the road, careening over a million sleeping policemen, up and up, past beautiful old houses whose facades are only partially visible behind ivy- and flower-covered walls. We search for street names, but they're not always marked. We try to follow the street numbers, but they're often random: 325 follows ll, then 18, and 120.
Suddenly, we run into a less picturesque area. And we think we've found where the house should be. T. backs up, so I can ask a young man if we're on the right street. He stares at me blankly.
I get out of the truck to see if I can find the restaurant. T. will try to turn the truck around and return for me.
Finding an entryway in the outer wall, I follow a muddy path to a broken-down house that seems to crumble as I watch. The half-naked children playing nearby launch themselves, screeching, into the hovel. Within seconds, a broken-down woman emerges from the dark interior.
The conversation goes something like this (but in Spanish):
Me: Good afternoon. Are you Reina S.?
She: Who?
Me: Are you Reina, the mother of G.?
She: Who?
Me: I'm from the United States. I'm looking for Reina....
She: Who?
Me: Does Reina S. live here? Do you know her? Am I at the right address?
She: Who?
Me: Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb you. Bye now.
She: Who?
I slog my way back to the truck, a bit irritated that G. has given me what appears to be the wrong address. Part of me is also relieved that G.'s mom doesn't live and work in such a run-down spot.
T. suggests that we continue climbing the hill a bit farther, and A. and I say, "Sure. What the heck," (in English).
So, up and up we go, as the neighborhood becomes more and more run down. We reach the end of the bus line and spot the address we are looking for. We see a series of small buildings, all leaning in different directions, an amalgam of corrugated cardboard and sheet metal, seemingly slapped together with spit. I jump out of the truck and try to find a gate. There is none.
"Shout her name," T. instructs. "That's how we do it here. She'll come to let you in."
I shout. And shout. And SHOUT. No one responds.
People are passing in and out of a house a bit farther up the road, so I approach and ask them if they know Doña Reina. "She's at her restaurant," a man tells me and points back down the street. I am relieved that she doesn't live or work in such a place.
We backtrack and, right at the end of the line -- the bus turn around -- we notice a hole-in-no-wall, a dark and dreary place where a pack of snaggle-toothed, flea-bitten, lame, and mangy mutts one-eyes us warily. T. and A. four-eye me warily and say, "You go first."
I peek into the entryway, and a teenage girl greets me. "I'm looking for Doña Reina," I say.
"Come in," she responds. "Mama!" she calls.
I duck (a rare maneuver for someone as vertically challenged as I am), in order to avoid splitting open my skull, and step down onto the dirt floor. Three bus drivers occupy one of the two tables, digging into unappealing plates of some unidentifiable cut of unidentifiable meat. The place and the plates are swarming with flies.
A. and T. have followed me inside. I can feel their eyes boring into the back of my back. Their thoughts, the same as mine, are on the order of "Oh,my God. Get me out of here!"
I smile as Reina comes to hug me. "We've been waiting for you," she tells me. "Sit down and have lunch."
The woman is short and wide. Her smile is huge and lights up her pretty face. She looks a lot like G. Reina is attractive and warm and hospitable. The place is filthy. My friends are horrified.
"Will you take something to him?"
I tell her that I'd be happy to squeeze something small into my carry-on bag. She wants to send him some mole, the multi-ingredient blend of chilies, chocolate, pumpkin seeds, and more, that can be green, yellow, brown, or red. Although she probably makes it herself, I have visions of the extruded coils of brown paste, sold in the market, that can be delicious but bear a strong and disturbing resemblance to a pile of horse manure . I tell Reina that I won't be able to take it with me onto the airplane, due to the 3-ounce liquid-paste rule. We agree that she'll give me a t-shirt for G., instead.
Reina invites us back for lunch the next day. She'll make something with chicken. We thank her and tell her that we've already got plans (which we do), but we´ll return before I leave, to pick up the shirt. After picture-taking and hugs goodbye, A., T., and I get into the truck.
Before we take off, T. drives us around the back of the building to see the kitchen, which is hanging off the side of the hill. Supported by only by a wooden pole and additional pieces of wood that have been jammed into place, it would surprise no one if it collapsed during the next rain.
I'm upset with G. I'd assumed that, like all good Mexican sons working their assess off in the US, he'd been sending money back to his mother. When I voice my anger, T. points out that there was a pile of bricks inside the restaurant and that Reina is probably buying them, one at a time, as she receives remittances. When she amasses enough bricks, construction will start and stop and start, proceeding whenever she gets the money to pay for materials and manpower.
Perhaps on my next visit to Oaxaca, Reina will have built a restaurant suitable for a queen -- or for the bus drivers that frequent it. And even if she doesn't, I'll go back. For the warmth of the soup and the conversation, for some chicken, and for a hug from this generous and good woman.
T. looks up the address on a street map. The exact street (la prolongacion de whatever) isn't listed, but he knows, more or less, where it's located -- in the toniest section of Oaxaca. A., T, and I agree to eat lunch there.
We hop into T.'s truck and bounce along the road, careening over a million sleeping policemen, up and up, past beautiful old houses whose facades are only partially visible behind ivy- and flower-covered walls. We search for street names, but they're not always marked. We try to follow the street numbers, but they're often random: 325 follows ll, then 18, and 120.
Suddenly, we run into a less picturesque area. And we think we've found where the house should be. T. backs up, so I can ask a young man if we're on the right street. He stares at me blankly.
I get out of the truck to see if I can find the restaurant. T. will try to turn the truck around and return for me.
Finding an entryway in the outer wall, I follow a muddy path to a broken-down house that seems to crumble as I watch. The half-naked children playing nearby launch themselves, screeching, into the hovel. Within seconds, a broken-down woman emerges from the dark interior.
The conversation goes something like this (but in Spanish):
Me: Good afternoon. Are you Reina S.?
She: Who?
Me: Are you Reina, the mother of G.?
She: Who?
Me: I'm from the United States. I'm looking for Reina....
She: Who?
Me: Does Reina S. live here? Do you know her? Am I at the right address?
She: Who?
Me: Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb you. Bye now.
She: Who?
I slog my way back to the truck, a bit irritated that G. has given me what appears to be the wrong address. Part of me is also relieved that G.'s mom doesn't live and work in such a run-down spot.
T. suggests that we continue climbing the hill a bit farther, and A. and I say, "Sure. What the heck," (in English).
So, up and up we go, as the neighborhood becomes more and more run down. We reach the end of the bus line and spot the address we are looking for. We see a series of small buildings, all leaning in different directions, an amalgam of corrugated cardboard and sheet metal, seemingly slapped together with spit. I jump out of the truck and try to find a gate. There is none.
"Shout her name," T. instructs. "That's how we do it here. She'll come to let you in."
I shout. And shout. And SHOUT. No one responds.
People are passing in and out of a house a bit farther up the road, so I approach and ask them if they know Doña Reina. "She's at her restaurant," a man tells me and points back down the street. I am relieved that she doesn't live or work in such a place.
We backtrack and, right at the end of the line -- the bus turn around -- we notice a hole-in-no-wall, a dark and dreary place where a pack of snaggle-toothed, flea-bitten, lame, and mangy mutts one-eyes us warily. T. and A. four-eye me warily and say, "You go first."
I peek into the entryway, and a teenage girl greets me. "I'm looking for Doña Reina," I say.
"Come in," she responds. "Mama!" she calls.
I duck (a rare maneuver for someone as vertically challenged as I am), in order to avoid splitting open my skull, and step down onto the dirt floor. Three bus drivers occupy one of the two tables, digging into unappealing plates of some unidentifiable cut of unidentifiable meat. The place and the plates are swarming with flies.
A. and T. have followed me inside. I can feel their eyes boring into the back of my back. Their thoughts, the same as mine, are on the order of "Oh,my God. Get me out of here!"
I smile as Reina comes to hug me. "We've been waiting for you," she tells me. "Sit down and have lunch."
The woman is short and wide. Her smile is huge and lights up her pretty face. She looks a lot like G. Reina is attractive and warm and hospitable. The place is filthy. My friends are horrified.
"Thank you," I manage. "We're not very hungry, and we don't eat red (or gray) meat. " A. and I assent to Reina's offer of a bowl of soup, however.
G's sister is swatting flies. She whacks one of the diners in the head and giggles. "There was a fly on him," she tells me.
T. says he doesn't feel that great and can't eat a thing. A., good sport that she is, and I eat the thin broth, which is definitely tasty. Reina instructs her daughter to bring us some tortillas and cheese. Although the white cheese looks like it may have fallen on the floor (what are those black edges?), it is delicious with the wheat tortillas. We are brought bottles of water. She won't accept payment for anything.
"Will you take something to him?"
I tell her that I'd be happy to squeeze something small into my carry-on bag. She wants to send him some mole, the multi-ingredient blend of chilies, chocolate, pumpkin seeds, and more, that can be green, yellow, brown, or red. Although she probably makes it herself, I have visions of the extruded coils of brown paste, sold in the market, that can be delicious but bear a strong and disturbing resemblance to a pile of horse manure . I tell Reina that I won't be able to take it with me onto the airplane, due to the 3-ounce liquid-paste rule. We agree that she'll give me a t-shirt for G., instead.
Reina invites us back for lunch the next day. She'll make something with chicken. We thank her and tell her that we've already got plans (which we do), but we´ll return before I leave, to pick up the shirt. After picture-taking and hugs goodbye, A., T., and I get into the truck.
Before we take off, T. drives us around the back of the building to see the kitchen, which is hanging off the side of the hill. Supported by only by a wooden pole and additional pieces of wood that have been jammed into place, it would surprise no one if it collapsed during the next rain.
I'm upset with G. I'd assumed that, like all good Mexican sons working their assess off in the US, he'd been sending money back to his mother. When I voice my anger, T. points out that there was a pile of bricks inside the restaurant and that Reina is probably buying them, one at a time, as she receives remittances. When she amasses enough bricks, construction will start and stop and start, proceeding whenever she gets the money to pay for materials and manpower.
Perhaps on my next visit to Oaxaca, Reina will have built a restaurant suitable for a queen -- or for the bus drivers that frequent it. And even if she doesn't, I'll go back. For the warmth of the soup and the conversation, for some chicken, and for a hug from this generous and good woman.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Backlog: Faith, population control, and shortcut (Oaxaca)
They say that atheist soldiers in the trenches of war get religion. I say you need only travel a Mexican road to find faith.
It's hard enough to walk, but I can't imagine ever getting behind a steering wheel in this country. You've gotta be extremely aggressive, suicidal, homicidal, or just plain crazy (or any combination thereof) to feel comfortable driving here.
My friend T. doesn't appear to be any of the above, and yet he pilots his motorcycle and truck with confidence. Normally relaxed and mild mannered, he explains: "Stop signs are street ornaments. Turn signals are car ornaments. Stop lights are suggestions. Flash your left signal to indicate that someone can pass. Or to indicate a left turn. Let the other driver beware and be a good guesser. Drive fast but arrive late. Rules are flexible. He who gets wherever first, without dying, wins."
So, after a day of sightseeing (a humongous old tree, a deserted convent), T. tells us that he's taking us to say goodbye to Reina, the mother of one of my former students and the owner of a street eatery. He knows a shortcut.
We are somewhere among the unmarked streets of Oaxaca, careening downhill in a small white truck. There is an obvious roadblock: a series of rocks and boulders stretching from one side of the street to the other. Even with my eyes tightly closed, I can see the message:"DO NOT ENTER!!!!"
We enter.
A. and I are shrieking hysterically. T. is smiling like a madman. An anarchist, he is in his element: there are no rules.
Quick right turn, fast left. The road in front of us disappears abruptly. A cliff. A. and I are trembling, grabbing each other, howling with laughter and with fear. We know we are going to die.
Not yet. I believe.
Taking a cab from the Mexico City airport to your hotel is an exercise in faith, courage, and bravado. Your driver is a matador, the other vehicles, the players in a tragedy with an ending already proscribed. Someone must be maimed or killed.
The cab is small and the bus converging from the left comes at you at the speed of a cheetah in pursuit of prey. The driver of the SUV to your right appears obsessed with becoming one with your lap. One of the godzillions of crosses on the side of the road already bears your name. You start to believe in miracles each time you arrive, awash in perspiration but alive(!), at your destination.
I haven't met a single person in this country -- native or foreigner -- who doesn't have tales to tell of people dying in car accidents. Every family has lost at least one member in a crash. The country's population would surely be quadruple what it is, if every day thousands of people didn't meet a gruesome and fiery vehicular finale.
Being a pedestrian is not much easier than being a driver, however. The other day I waited 20 minutes to run like hell across a thoroughfare in Cuernavaca. The traffic never let up, much less stopped. There are probably thousands of people, who are believed to have been kidnapped because they never returned home from the grocery store, when in reality, they were unable to reach the other side of the road. Legions have no doubt died waiting for their chance to realize their dream of a pedestrian right of way. I have never heard a "Why did the chicken cross the road?" joke here, because no chicken has ever done so.
It's hard enough to walk, but I can't imagine ever getting behind a steering wheel in this country. You've gotta be extremely aggressive, suicidal, homicidal, or just plain crazy (or any combination thereof) to feel comfortable driving here.
My friend T. doesn't appear to be any of the above, and yet he pilots his motorcycle and truck with confidence. Normally relaxed and mild mannered, he explains: "Stop signs are street ornaments. Turn signals are car ornaments. Stop lights are suggestions. Flash your left signal to indicate that someone can pass. Or to indicate a left turn. Let the other driver beware and be a good guesser. Drive fast but arrive late. Rules are flexible. He who gets wherever first, without dying, wins."
So, after a day of sightseeing (a humongous old tree, a deserted convent), T. tells us that he's taking us to say goodbye to Reina, the mother of one of my former students and the owner of a street eatery. He knows a shortcut.
We are somewhere among the unmarked streets of Oaxaca, careening downhill in a small white truck. There is an obvious roadblock: a series of rocks and boulders stretching from one side of the street to the other. Even with my eyes tightly closed, I can see the message:"DO NOT ENTER!!!!"
We enter.
A. and I are shrieking hysterically. T. is smiling like a madman. An anarchist, he is in his element: there are no rules.
Quick right turn, fast left. The road in front of us disappears abruptly. A cliff. A. and I are trembling, grabbing each other, howling with laughter and with fear. We know we are going to die.
Not yet. I believe.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
How I found Jesus Part II (Mexico City)
You might be asking yourself, "Why on earth would Barbara spend an entire hour of her 6-week vacation searching for a guy who gave her the wrong telephone number?" Or you might not. But I'm going to tell you why, anyway.
In order to do so, however, I've got to take you back, to when a little girl (about 5 years old and knee high to a grasshopper's knee-hi's), donned leotards and tights for the first time, in the belief that being a ballerina was to be her calling.
Move quickly to view that same girl, 4 years later and only slightly taller, arriving at the realization that she lacked rhythm, grace, and any possibility of living life as a dancer -- something her instructor no doubt realized the first time she set toe on the dance floor.
Fast forward to Mexico City in 2006, where this girl -- now a woman of a certain age (if she were a large dog, she might be dead by now) -- spends hours each day for nearly a week, waiting for her teenage son. As said son plays chess inside a large tent, the woman wanders about the park where the tent is situated. She watches children play soccer. Reads everything in and out of sight. Tries not to watch the young couples sprawled on benches or in the grass as they smooch. And finally, discovers that people are offering dance lessons to other people in the park.
For nearly a week, I watch the lessons, thinking, "Should I or shouldn´t I? Do I dare?" Finally, on our last day in Mexico, I do.
The students -- all older than me --are dancing salsa. What fun! I ask the teacher if I can join in. She says that the lesson is half over and that it will cost me the same $2.50 (yikes!) that it would have had I taken the full session. I tell her that´s fine, pay my fee, and line up. Just in time to change to the next dance, NOT salsa. For an hour we do cumbia and other dances with which I am not familiar. At one point, the teacher tells me, "It´s like riding a horse!"
"My horse is tired!" I respond.
My fellow students, not yet breaking a sweat, end the session with American line dancing, which I don´t even want to do in the US. I am trying to recuperate on a nearby bench and am panting like a horse.
Despite my fatigue, my two left feet, and my inability to follow simple instructions, I take at least one lesson from the same instructor each time I return to Mexico City in subsequent years. She recognizes me, as do some of the members of her class, because I am the only foreigner or, perhaps, because I am the worst dancer who has ever joined them.
The last Monday of my stay, in the summer of 2008, I take a dance class and, for the first time, am able to endure the entire two hours without feeling as if I were about to collapse. In addition, I am actually able to reproduce most of the steps that the teacher models. When I am paired with partners, I don't cause them excessive pain.
After the lesson, I retire for about an hour to an Internet cafe. I send off my emails and walk back towards the subway, passing through the park once more. It´s then that I notice that there are more teachers and more dancers, and that some of the classes are pure salsa. I stop to watch one group, and the assistant instructor beckons me to join them. I shake my head no; I'm already wiped. But I ask the instructor if he´ll be teaching the next day. "No," he says, "but you can learn now." I figure what the heck, and I jump in.
I´m immediately partnered with a young man who knows less than I do. Every couple of minutes, the assistant grabs me, shows the youngster what he´s supposed to do, and hands me back. The boy doesn´t get it, so I´m assigned to someone else. Jesus is my new partner.
You´ve got to understand that, even when I am at my dancing best, I´m not very good. I possess a complete lack of kinesthetic memory, which means that I have to relearn the basics every time I dance and cannot repeat what I´ve been doing for an hour, two hours later. I´ve taken lessons in Richmond, on and off for the last year or so, and I have improved a bit, but that's not saying much.
If I were any good, a lot younger or beautiful, men would be patient, would try to teach me a step or two, would keep me on the dance floor for more than one song. "That´s why I leave Richmond each year," I tell people, half jokingly. "Because the men who´ve danced with me once, realize how bad I am. When I return a month or two later, they´ve forgotten who I am and they make the mistake of asking me to dance once again."
So, when I danced with Jesus, was able to follow him, and things seemed to click, it was absolutely amazing! I really wanted to dance and dance well again and I was willing to go to some lengths to reunite with the perfect partner.
When I see Jesus, he explains that he´d lost his cell phone about a month after we met. I´ve arrived just in time to accompany him to a better dance lesson, and we spend an hour or so learning steps. Either I´ve improved or he hasn´t been practicing or something. Jesus is a mere mortal in my eyes....
In order to do so, however, I've got to take you back, to when a little girl (about 5 years old and knee high to a grasshopper's knee-hi's), donned leotards and tights for the first time, in the belief that being a ballerina was to be her calling.
Move quickly to view that same girl, 4 years later and only slightly taller, arriving at the realization that she lacked rhythm, grace, and any possibility of living life as a dancer -- something her instructor no doubt realized the first time she set toe on the dance floor.
Fast forward to Mexico City in 2006, where this girl -- now a woman of a certain age (if she were a large dog, she might be dead by now) -- spends hours each day for nearly a week, waiting for her teenage son. As said son plays chess inside a large tent, the woman wanders about the park where the tent is situated. She watches children play soccer. Reads everything in and out of sight. Tries not to watch the young couples sprawled on benches or in the grass as they smooch. And finally, discovers that people are offering dance lessons to other people in the park.
For nearly a week, I watch the lessons, thinking, "Should I or shouldn´t I? Do I dare?" Finally, on our last day in Mexico, I do.
The students -- all older than me --are dancing salsa. What fun! I ask the teacher if I can join in. She says that the lesson is half over and that it will cost me the same $2.50 (yikes!) that it would have had I taken the full session. I tell her that´s fine, pay my fee, and line up. Just in time to change to the next dance, NOT salsa. For an hour we do cumbia and other dances with which I am not familiar. At one point, the teacher tells me, "It´s like riding a horse!"
"My horse is tired!" I respond.
My fellow students, not yet breaking a sweat, end the session with American line dancing, which I don´t even want to do in the US. I am trying to recuperate on a nearby bench and am panting like a horse.
Despite my fatigue, my two left feet, and my inability to follow simple instructions, I take at least one lesson from the same instructor each time I return to Mexico City in subsequent years. She recognizes me, as do some of the members of her class, because I am the only foreigner or, perhaps, because I am the worst dancer who has ever joined them.
The last Monday of my stay, in the summer of 2008, I take a dance class and, for the first time, am able to endure the entire two hours without feeling as if I were about to collapse. In addition, I am actually able to reproduce most of the steps that the teacher models. When I am paired with partners, I don't cause them excessive pain.
After the lesson, I retire for about an hour to an Internet cafe. I send off my emails and walk back towards the subway, passing through the park once more. It´s then that I notice that there are more teachers and more dancers, and that some of the classes are pure salsa. I stop to watch one group, and the assistant instructor beckons me to join them. I shake my head no; I'm already wiped. But I ask the instructor if he´ll be teaching the next day. "No," he says, "but you can learn now." I figure what the heck, and I jump in.
I´m immediately partnered with a young man who knows less than I do. Every couple of minutes, the assistant grabs me, shows the youngster what he´s supposed to do, and hands me back. The boy doesn´t get it, so I´m assigned to someone else. Jesus is my new partner.
You´ve got to understand that, even when I am at my dancing best, I´m not very good. I possess a complete lack of kinesthetic memory, which means that I have to relearn the basics every time I dance and cannot repeat what I´ve been doing for an hour, two hours later. I´ve taken lessons in Richmond, on and off for the last year or so, and I have improved a bit, but that's not saying much.
If I were any good, a lot younger or beautiful, men would be patient, would try to teach me a step or two, would keep me on the dance floor for more than one song. "That´s why I leave Richmond each year," I tell people, half jokingly. "Because the men who´ve danced with me once, realize how bad I am. When I return a month or two later, they´ve forgotten who I am and they make the mistake of asking me to dance once again."
So, when I danced with Jesus, was able to follow him, and things seemed to click, it was absolutely amazing! I really wanted to dance and dance well again and I was willing to go to some lengths to reunite with the perfect partner.
When I see Jesus, he explains that he´d lost his cell phone about a month after we met. I´ve arrived just in time to accompany him to a better dance lesson, and we spend an hour or so learning steps. Either I´ve improved or he hasn´t been practicing or something. Jesus is a mere mortal in my eyes....
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Backlog: Missing and presumed lost (Mexico City)
I had left A., typing away, at an Internet cafe, telling her that I was going back to the Hotel I. to use the bathroom. We had already agreed that we would meet at 5pm for a dance lesson. I would see her back at the hotel , perhaps, if I stopped off to change shoes before heading to the park.
After using the convenient facilities in the hotel lobby, I took a walk and ended up spending several hours in another of the zillion Internet cafes nearby. (No coffee, by the way, in most of these places.) When I returned to the hotel and requested the room key, the clerk womaning the front desk informed me that my friend was upstairs and had been checking all day to see if I'd returned.
"Uh oh," I thought. Something must be wrong. A's mom had fallen and broken a hip and she'd been expecting news. Or perhaps something else -- obviously grave -- had happened. I frantically pushed the elevator button and willed the conveyance to deliver me quickly to our room on the 2nd floor (3rd floor in US translation).
I ran to and knocked on the door and identified myself. A. let me in. "Where have you been?" she cried (without tears, but with a mixture of semi-raised voice, irritation, and relief).
Apparently, she had not heard my "See you later," and had thought that I was going to come right back to the place where she was sending and receiving emails. When I didn't return, she thought I'd gotten sick. She went to check on me, but I wasn't in the room and the clerks said that they'd not seen me. Was I in the hospital? Kidnapped? Murdered?
A. showed me the note that she had composed as she prepared to report my disappearance to the authorities. It is important to realize that A. started learning Spanish only last year and has made great strides. Despite them, she would have caused the police some confusion and hilarity when they read that "the Internet cafe left, but she didn't arrive at the hotel, never."
In a city of over 20 million people, it's not unusual to have things go awry or have people disappear. I didn't even know I was missing, but I guess that's the nature of lost objects and lost beings.
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