The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Archives for December 2009

Am I a real Spanish-speaker now?

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When I first got to Mexico 10 months ago, I felt jumpy and anxious almost every time I tried to speak Spanish. A fearful voice would pipe up in my head: What if no one understands me? What if I sound like an idiot? I look Mexican, but my accent blows. They’re going to think I’m a pocha. Maybe… I really am a pocha.

The more I talked, the more that feeling lessened. I dealt with the gas company when our meter broke. I ordered dozens of taxis, and requested an ATM card over the phone, and went to the dentist and the doctor. I bought chicken and beef from various mercados, and instructed them on whether I wanted it in filets, ground, deboned. I began to ask the people in the grocery stores for help when I couldn’t find an item, like the elusive cilantro.

A few days ago I was chatting with my Venezuelan-born friend Daniela. She mentioned how, despite living in the U.S. for years, she still doesn’t feel fluent in English, but she no longer cares about messing up. I realized: That’s me, too. I throw out words with abandon, sometimes without really knowing whether I’m correct or not. Maybe I’ll phrase the iffy word as a question — “Éstas pantalones parecen demasiado… apretadas…?” — or maybe not. The point is, I’m confident. I know I’ll eventually get understood. And if someone looks at me strange, I smile and start over. I know, in my heart, that not one bit of me is a pocha. I hate that word.

It’s funny, because this week at the FIL in Guadalajara, I’ve been hanging out with a bunch of American writers who don’t speak much Spanish at all. Yesterday we went to dinner and I was the translator. The translator! Not just for the food, but for cultural issues, such as how much to tip a taxi, why the check was taking so long, etc.

“So how did you learn Spanish?” a few people asked me. The question struck me as odd, because I thought it was obvious that I was still learning. But then I realized that I knew way more than them, and actually, maybe I knew quite a lot.

It’s weird, because part of me doesn’t even want to accept that this is happening. I’m in disbelief. Are my Spanish skills really good? Is it really true? The deeper issue here, for those of you who don’t know me very well, is my complicated history with Spanish. I never cared much about it until I got to college, and then suddenly I felt guilty and angry and sad that I never tried to learn.

The rational side of me is over the moon that my Spanish has improved so much. But emotionally I still can’t admit it to myself. Maybe I’m just being a perfectionist. Or maybe I’m still clinging to this fear that I’m never going to speak Spanish well, because I’m not Mexican.

Truly, I still have a lot to learn. I can’t think quickly on my feet in Spanish, or express every sentiment I’d like to. But I am happy with how much I’ve accomplished so far. I have carved out a normal, fulfilling life for myself here, based almost entirely on my language abilities.

I can at least admit that to myself.

Tacos in Guadalajara, 11 p.m. last night

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They were as good as they looked. Interestingly, the process was a lot more orderly than I’m used to. We ordered from one person, who gave us a ticket, which we then handed to the taquero.

Most people also drove up in cars or SUVs. Some even ate inside their vehicles, which I personally think is blasphemy. Everyone knows that street tacos should be eaten while standing up, or sitting on a plastic stool.

First impressions of Guadalajara — pretty women and cleanliness

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In a cab on the way to the FIL yesterday, the cabbie asked where I was from. I said I lived in Mexico City, but I was originally from the United States.

“How’d you guess?” I asked him. “My accent?”

“No,” he said. “You’re too pretty. The women from Mexico City generally aren’t that pretty.”

Of course it was a line. I know plenty of beautiful women in Mexico City. But then I realized… wait, the women I’d seen on the street in Guadalajara really were attractive and stylish. In fact, if we were in Mexico City, I would have placed them as Condesa residents. But these Guadalajarans stretched across all barrios — from the Centro down to the Expo Center. This cabbie was right. Pretty, hip Jaliscienses seemed to be everywhere. Was it something in the water? Or the tortas ahogadas?

Guadalajara also seems very clean, probably because it’s so much smaller than Mexico City. I don’t see as much trash in the gutters or smell as many foul sewer-type smells. The guesthouse where I’m staying, Casa Vilasanta, is full of plants and spotless. Here’s the view from my window.

First day at the FIL: Ray Bradbury, L.A. surrealists and Mexico City Noir

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*Ray Bradbury, right, sits with his biographer Sam Weller, via videoconference at the Feria Internacional del Libro in Guadalajara

Before I get into Ray Bradbury, I must tell you how freaking kick-ass this event is. Thousands of people, hungry for books and literature, spend hours buying books, and discussing writing and literature. And this year they’re talking about L.A., a city close to my heart. It’s truly heaven.

Yesterday, in between browsing books about Chicano culture in L.A. (a subject I’m so intrigued by, I’d love to have my own Chicano-L.A. library someday, possibly as an ethnic companion to the Man Room) — I caught Ray Bradbury via videoconference in one of the event’s salon rooms. Maybe 200 people were there, and about a third of the crowd looked like young students, maybe late high school or early-college age. The girl behind me squealed when Bradbury’s face appeared on the screen.

I haven’t read a lot of Bradbury’s work, but I do respect the man as a legend. He’s 89 now and slightly hard of hearing, but he conveyed warmth and personality. He joked with the crowd, telling us he wished he could tango with everyone after the panel ended. He somehow managed to sounded humble and matter-of-fact when he mentioned that he pounded out the first version of Fahrenheit 451 in nine days, on a rented typewriter inside a library. A classic — nine days!

When asked about the secret to his longevity, Bradbury said he surrounds himself with love. Anyone who doesn’t believe in you, he warned the crowd, should be dismissed from your life.

“Tell them, Ray Bradbury told me to fire you,” he said, jutting a plump finger at the screen. “Get outta my life.”

I loved him. He also drank wine and ate crackers during the Q&A portion with the audience.

There’s really so much to see and do here, it’s hard to pick just one event. It’s like trying to choose a band at the ACL festival. Yesterday, after Ray Bradbury, I checked out a panel on surrealist writers of L.A., most of whom said they hated the title “surrealist.” (They’re loosely defined as writers who reject the traditional forms of writing, either by including fantastical sequences, playing with fonts and graphic design, etc.)

After that I browsed some more books, and headed to a discussion of a new book called “Mexico City Noir,” a series of short stories about crime and violence in el D.F. Bought a copy and can’t wait to read it, especially because one story focuses on the most dangerous street corner in Mexico, as deemed by local police. (It’s in Doctores.)

Today I’m headed to a Q&A with Cheech Marin, a discussion with award-winning LA Weekly food critic Jonathan Gold, and possibly a panel entitled “Los Angeles in a Tequila Shot.” Should be fun. Will be back later with more!