The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Archives for February 2009

Learning to view life with “calmita”

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I’ve mentioned before that there isn’t really a sense of urgency to get things done here. During the lunch hour people stroll leisurely around my neighborhood, their to-go food in hand. Those business cards I ordered were supposed to be ready last weekend, and they’re still not done.

Already, I’ve been told twice, in a nice Mexican way, to chill out.

The first person to tell me was our door man. I was frustrated with my apartment search, and how I had to walk everywhere. The doorman must have seen my scowling face as I was leaving, because he told me, “Tranquila. Con calmita, con calmita.” I was like… calmita? What is this word?

About a week later at the tianguis, I wanted to buy a granada china, which is a fruit I’ve never seen before. (Supposedly you pop the top open and pull out the seeds in one long, gooey mass.) The fruit stand chico and his chico associate quoted me 10 pesos for two. I began digging in my purse for change, but couldn’t find what I was looking for.

I was still digging when suddenly they said, nearly at the same time: “Tranquila. Tranquila. Con calmita.” I looked up. They stared at me like, Why are you rushing?

Then one of the chicos said, “Siete pesos está bien.” Apparently being a stress-ball is a good bargaining tool.

Really, though, “con calmita” has made me question why I rush so much in the first place. So what if I’m 15 minutes late? Everyone is late here. So what if I can’t find the correct change? These boys are just happy they’re getting something.

Yesterday Crayton and I went to lunch, and the waiter didn’t immediately bring our credit card receipt after we paid. Crayton wanted to flag the guy down, but I said we should wait. I didn’t say “con calmita,” but I thought it. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the waiter brought the receipt. This calmita stuff works!

Sunday night, outside the Belanova concert

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Auditorio Nacional

At the last minute, we decided to check out Belanova on Sunday at the Auditorio Nacional. They’re a popular Mexican band with bubbly, 80’s-inspired pop songs.

The lead singer, Denisse Guerrero, is super cute, in a Mexican-Agent-99 kind of way. At the concert she wore a yellow ruffled minidress that made her look like either a dollop of lemon frosting or a go-go dancer at a rave. (Don’t you love the tension there?)

I like them. They seem smarter than everyone makes them out to be.

Anyway, we were probably the oldest people there by maybe 10 years, but we still had a great time. Everyone in the crowd sang along to every song, including a very loud teenage girl behind me who was super off-key.

This song appeared to be The Jam of the high school set. Can’t you just see dedicating it to your crush?

I did hear one girl behind me sigh, “Ésta es mi canción.”

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Vicente Fernandez live on Valentine’s Day

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Vicente Fernandez 1

Mexico City may not have drinkable water, but when it comes to fiestas, they really know how to get down. On Valentine’s Day the city sponsored an entire day’s worth of activities — a big fair in the Zocalo, a mass kiss-fest that broke the world’s record for the most people kissing at one time (yes, weird, but they do things like that here), and, at night, a free Vicente Fernandez concert.

Crayton and I had a bunch of errands to run during the day so we only made it to the concert. To stand in front of the cathedral and watch Chente with thousands of other Mexicans — it was pretty much the coolest. Also, ingenious Mexican entrepreneurs sold paper periscopes for 10 pesos, so you could see Chente from far away.

More pics after the jump.
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The Mexican concept of time

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Before I moved here, I heard plenty of warnings about how things move at a slower pace. When people say “mañana,” they mean some fuzzy point in the distance, not tomorrow, necessarily. Things that you’d think would take five minutes — fixing the voicemail box on my Mexican cell phone, for instance — end up taking a week.

I’d like to be open-minded and live how the Romans do. (You say tomorrow? Great, I’ll be ready in three days… or four.) But it’s been a little hard to rejigger my American attitude about time, because it’s seeped into the tiniest of decisions.

Yesterday the man who made my business cards told me to meet him at his shop at 1 p.m. I showed up at 1:15 and he wasn’t there. (And his phone number was out of service.) I went and got a carrot/orange juice at a juice bar, and came back at 2, and there he was.

“Traffic was horrible,” he apologized.

Yesterday night, a friend was hosting a birthday barbecue. His invitation said 2 p.m. In the U.S., I would have showed up shortly afterward. But this is Mexico — parties run all night, right? (My one piece of evidence to support this is a Super Bowl party we attended here, which supposedly started at 1 p.m., but at which no one really arrived until 11 or so.)

So, I showed up at 11. The party had already ended.

“Comidas are different,” my friend, an American woman who has lived here for four years, explained. Comida is the word for a barbecue that starts in the mid-afternoon. “By 11 p.m. everyone’s already passed out from drinking all day.”

Now I know. Interestingly, there do seem to be a lot more house parties here than anywhere else I’ve lived. Last night, after the barbecue didn’t work out, we ended up at someone’s house in Escandón, a neighborhood that borders Condesa. At 2 a.m. — when we left — the party was still rolling. I think parties here end as late as 6 a.m. That is something I won’t be joining the Romans in.

Joining the Newcomers Club, and being a woman of leisure

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On the advice of a friend, I joined the Newcomers Club a few days ago. It’s a social organization for English-speaking women, and they offer lots of helpful information on where to find English-speaking doctors, hairstylists, veterinarians, handymen, etc. They also host monthly coffees for expat wives (is that me? Am I really an “expat wife”?), and tours of museums and historical monuments around town.

They held an orientation for new members this morning. It was… eye-opening.
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Is it weird that I’m suddenly obsessed with tacos?

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I’ve been making them at home all the time lately, probably because produce is so abundant and my tiny kitchen suits meals made with one pan. These are spinach and oyster mushroom, with a sprinkling of tomato. Bought all of it at the tianguis.

You can’t really tell, but the tomatoes are a deep, dark red. [insert dreamy sigh]

Next step: Finding sriracha.

veggie tacos

A few images from the Centro Histórico

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Pickled red onions to spoon over your cochinita pibil at Coox Hanal, a Yucatecan restaurant on Isabel La Catolica Street:

Coox Hanal onions

A strawberry, banana and guava licuado at Jugos Canada, a retro-ish juice shop:

Licuado

The Palacio de Bellas Artes, which is supposed to be the place to catch a foklorico performance:

Palacio de Bellas Artes

… And over in La Zona Rosa, people lined up to watch the U.S.-Mexico soccer game, which the U.S. ended up winning, 2-0:

Watching the game in La Zona Rosa

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How to get business cards in Mexico City, if you have no idea what you’re doing

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My friend Aura — also my soon-to-be landlady — took me to get business cards yesterday. She swore we’d find everything we needed in the Centro, which is the bustling, historic part of town where, once upon a time, Monteczuma ruled. (Then the Spaniards came and razed the pyramids to build a cathedral.)

It was my first time going there during the day, and I figured we’d just pop in a store and buy them. Oh, sweet, naive American girl….
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On being a half-foreigner in Mexico

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The other day, a new friend, Alice, asked me if people often think I’m Mexican. I said yes, but added that it’s not that great because the myth is destroyed as soon as I open my mouth. Once I start talking, most people give me a confused, “Wait… what the hell are you?” kind of look. This happens several times a day.

Ten years ago, I would have hated that look. HATED it. I would’ve gone home, ashamed, and kicked myself for being American and not Mexican, for not knowing Spanish, for being a dumb pocha.

Now that I’m older and a lot more comfortable with my American identity (I’m guessing age has something do to with that), I probably misspoke a little bit to Alice, because being an English-dominant Chicana here bothers me a lot less. Nothing can change the fact that I grew up in the U.S. watching G.I. Joe and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and eating mac n’ cheese and hot dogs, and speaking English my whole life. So why put so much pressure on myself?

To be honest, the confused-look makes me feel kind of unique. Not everyone receives it. Only the 1-out-of-1000 who happen to look like they blend in, but — surprise! — they don’t.

Really, what I’ve been struck by most in living here so far is not feeling like a foreigner, but blending in for the first time. In the Metro, among the sea of brown faces, I’m just another girl walking with her head down, trying to change subway lines as quickly as possible. No one looks twice. In the subway in Boston, the lost Spanish-speaking tourists always flocked to me and asked for directions.

Walking around Mexico City, I’m the only one who knows that I don’t blend in completely. But that’s kinda the secret thrill. Not a burden.