The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Expat Life

Is Mexico City turning me into a jerk?

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Tried to buy beer with my credit card at the Extra convenience store yesterday. The clerk informed me that they don’t take credit cards, and she pointed to the ATM. (As an aside: The very same chain A BLOCK AWAY takes credit cards. But whatever.)

So, I got money. I returned to pay for my beer. The clerk eyed one of my 50-peso bills.

“It’s torn,” she said. Sure enough, a tiny piece maybe half the size of my fingernail had ripped off.

“And….?” I asked.

“We can’t accept it.”

“But it came out of the ATM like that. The ATM in this store!”

“Sorry.”

“And what do I do now?”

“You have to go to the bank and they’ll change it for you.”

“What bank?”

“Any bank.”

Suddenly an old man smoking a cigarette decided to weigh in on the matter. He wore a convenience store uniform too.

“Yeah, we can’t accept that,” he said. “Just go to the bank. They’ll change it for you.”

I gave her another 50 peso bill and received my change in silence.

Walking home, I grumbled about the ludicrousness of this, the ridicularity, the lameosity. (I like to invent words when I’m mad.) Then I realized how flippant I’d been to the clerk. “And now what? What do I do now?” In the Yucatan, I’d raised my voice to a guy at our hotel who’d demanded to know where we got our free Chichen Itza passes. Maybe I’m running out of patience. Has anyone else experience this? Especially people who moved from slower-paced, polite Southern cities?

Crayton, my sweet Alabama-bred husband, suggested that maybe gruffness just goes further here. A French restaurant — an empty one — turned us away last week because we didn’t have a reservation. We’d dined at this restaurant before without a reservation. Walking away, we wondered if it would have been better to chew them out. “Yeah, reservation, right, because you’re so BUSY.”

Or maybe we just need a vacation.

Nevermind about all that Zen stuff

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Of course, after declaring to the world that I’m calm, the universe starts poking at my Zen-ness like a woodpecker.

I came home after writing the previous blog post to discover that we had no water pressure. This confused me. Didn’t the pipa arrive at 6 a.m.? Didn’t that mean we should now have water? I asked our new portero, Pablo — or maybe it’s Pedro — whether or not anyone else in the building had pressure. He said he didn’t know. He seemed surprised that I cared so much.

I knocked on a neighbor’s door to see if he had water pressure. He said he didn’t, and he acted bored with the whole conversation, like he wanted to get back to watching TV or whatever. I was like: Does no one CARE that we have no water? Is wanting water an American ideal? How can the Mexicans, and my Argentinean neighbor, be more Zen than I am? Where in the hell are they showering? Are they not showering? I felt tears coming on again, but I pushed them back.

I decided to go to the grocery store. Maybe I was just hungry and that’s what was making me so upset. I would buy the fixings for a fabulous salad — mixed greens, turkey, panela cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes, and maybe fresh sliced mango for dessert — and just wait this whole thing out.

Sure enough, I did feel better on my way back. I ate my salad and read the new Chilango magazine and devoured my mango sprinkled with coconut. A little while later, a neighbor knocked on my door. He said the whole building didn’t have water pressure because of a blockage in the pipes. Folks were coming to clean the cistern early Saturday morning and hopefully that would solve the problem. But that would mean we’d have absolutely no water — not even to wash our hands — starting at 9 a.m. and continuing until at least 1 p.m., he said.

That brings us to today. This morning, before the cleaners arrived, we filled up the toilets and our water bucket, and washed all the dishes. We’ll shower later at the gym. A friend graciously offered to let me do laundry at her house tomorrow, if our water still doesn’t work.

What else can a person do?

The Zen state of mind (or: I will no longer shed tears over Telmex and water)

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The beach in Progreso, Yucatan

I’m back from the Yucatan and I feel calmer already. The beach and the poolside views at our hacienda hotel helped. And so did (I’m semi-embarrassed to admit) certain chapters of Eat Pray Love, which I swore I would never read (over 7 million copies are now in print!), but now I’m so glad I did, because if a formerly divorced and depressed woman can find inner peace, then dammit, so can I.

Telmex says we’re not going to have a phone line for at least 15 more days. That’s fine, if that’s what the universe wants….

We still don’t have water, but pipa truck guys arrived this morning at 6 a.m. and rang our buzzer. (We had no idea they were coming and no one else did either.) The water is supposed to come back soon. The fact that we can even afford a pipa is a blessing.

And I am living in Mexico City, which is a blessing, too. Oh, and I met a really cool cab driver yesterday afternoon who said he’s known in Tepito as “Bruce Lee’s Cousin,” because he puts the smackdown on any dudes who try to mess with him. (Tepito is known as the toughest neighborhood in the city.) I got his number and he’s taking me to the airport next week.

Your faithful Zen Princess,
Lesley

When cheddar cheese is AWOL

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The Newcomer’s Club gives all its members a free guide of tips on how to get by as an English-speaker. When I got mine a few months ago, a paragraph in the introduction caught my eye: “What do you do when you’re having your husband’s boss over for dinner, only to discover ricotta cheese — the star ingredient in your lasagna — can’t be found at your local supermarket?”

I remember scoffing at this. Lasagna? You’re really making lasagna for your husband’s boss when you live in Mexico City? Dude, sacar the Rick Bayless and hook up some chicken thighs bathed in tomatillo sauce!

Of course, I totally ate my hat during Crayton’s birthday. I tried to make mac n’ cheese — his favorite — only to discover that my local supermarket (nay, two supermarkets) didn’t have sharp cheddar. I fretted in the grocery store for a few minutes, feeling like a pampered expat wife, before realizing that any type of melted cheese would do just fine, especially when smothered in heavy cream. I picked gouda and gruyere. Everyone loved it.

It’s interesting how difficult it’s been to tweak my American eating habits. I thought: I’ll arrive in Mexico and only cook with fresh, local ingredients! But I’ve done it in baby steps. Buying nopal tortillas. Crumbling panela cheese on salads.

Some days I just want a turkey burger. (Ground turkey doesn’t exist here.) I want diced apple on my cereal, even though it comes from Washington and is way more expensive than papaya. (Which, IMO, kind of smells like vomit.)

Maybe a cooking class would inspire me. Or unearthing my two Diana Kennedy cookbooks and actually reading them, instead of skimming them until my eyes glaze over.

Telmex made me cry

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A few days ago I had my hopes up. Sergio, the Telmex guy, suggested that a line in Apt. 5.1 appeared to be available. I could use it, if I had sufficient evidence that it wasn’t being used. I spoke to the doorman, who said the apartment was actually an office. Then I spoke to the office secretary, who said sorry, they were definitely using their phone lines.

I felt like I was living in 1962. (The outdated, frustrating 1962, not the glamorous Doris-Day-PIllow-Talk 1962.) Why do I have to ask these people if they’re using their phone line? Why does an office get to have three phones lines, while I have none? As soon as I got back to my apartment, I started crying. But only because I’m emotional right now.

Sergio called me several minutes later. “Well,” he said, “I think we’re going to have to make the network larger.”

“But what does that mean?” I asked. “When will they start?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. But here’s a number for my supervisor…”

I’ve already tried to call said supervisor. He never answers his phone.

UPDATE: After 20 phone calls, Crayton finally got ahold of the supervisor. They are supposedly installing our line “next Thursday or Friday.”

I finally thought it: “I want to go home.”

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This morning, my arms full of dirty clothes, I opened the door to our tiny washer/dryer combo and discovered the sheets I’d placed there last night were still wet. I’d already tried to dry these sheets twice. Did this mean our dryer was broken, too? I screamed in my head, and I think it reached Mars.

The past few days have tested my patience. First we didn’t have water. Then we didn’t have hot water. Then I got a haircut from an aggressive Mexican stylist who gave me spiky bangs. Then the telephone installation guy broke Crayton’s nightstand. Then he said, Oh señorita, actually you can’t get a phone line in your building, the “network is saturated.” Then I woke up to find the wet sheets. Meanwhile three other loads waited, staring at me with their dirty eyes.

At that moment, the United States suddenly seemed like paradise. Hot water gushes from the faucets without anyone worrying where it comes from. A person can call up AT&T — or a carrier of their choice — and receive a phone line without much fuss. Few people worry about whether they’ll have water or gas tomorrow. And they don’t get scratch paper shoved in their faces during business transactions. GOD. What is it with Mexicans and scratch paper? Is it leftovers from the dearth of fliers people give out on the street? I got a Dianetics one today (headlines: “Depresion? Estres?”) and was seriously considering purchasing it.

So yeah. I thought it.

I wanna go home.

Eventually, after banishing myself to my room and playing with my new iPhone, I calmed down. I took some clothes to the cleaners and passed a quiet street that reminded me of what I like about this country. An old, osteoporotic woman walking ahead of me called “Buenos dias!” into a cafe. The man behind the counter yelled back, “Buenos dias!” His voice sounded raspy, like he’d smoked too much.

When I got home, the maintenance man in our building showed me how to light our water heater’s pilot light, and I read the instruction manual to learn how to keep the thing going. (The whole while feeling like a dumb American for not knowing a shred about water heaters.) About an hour later, our hot water had been restored.

The sheets went into the dryer a third time. At the end of their three-hour cycle, they were dry too. (I have now purchased a clothesline.)

One beer and a few Hershey kisses later, life is really not so bad. And I’m coming around to seeing the other side all this, which is that as an American, I’ve been spoiled to believe that natural resources like gas and water are in endless supply. Obviously they’re not. Readjusting my world view is part of the reason we moved down here in the first place. Just wish it was more “lazy conversations with Mexicans over coffee” rather than “wake up, surprise!, there’s no water.”

Remember all my talk about hailing cabs off the street?

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I’m not doing it anymore. This article from El Universal scared the wits out of me. The reporters combed through a bunch of the city’s crime data to show that taxi crime victims are overwhelmingly (90 percent) women. They’re beaten, robbed, raped. Most of the perpetrators aren’t caught.

A particularly telling quote from the story, from a female official who works with crime victims: “To ride in a street taxi is to play Russian Roulette — you might be fine, but in one of those chances, it might change your life.”

Next time we go to our local sitio, I’ll try not to grumble when they charge us an extra 40 pesos.

Things I’m thankful for today, when we don’t have water, again

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1. The Artesanos del Dulce cafe only a few blocks from my house, and their wireless internet, cafe Americano and dark-chocolate cookies

2. The hot showers at my new gym. And, for that matter, my new gym. It’s at the Sheraton Hotel a few blocks from my house. It’s super nice and EMPTY. No guys in mesh tank tops doing tricep curls and kissing their guns. (Talking to YOU, Gold’s Gym Polanco.)

4. The fact that my husband and I are happy and healthy, and so are our parents and loved ones.

5. The “display case” outside this dentist’s office, which I always pass on my way to Artesanos del Dulce.

Teeth, anyone?

6. My new iPhone. It took two visits to the Telcel store and a personal reference, but I got it. Now I know why Americans don’t get Mexican cell phone plans.

What happens when you have no water in Mexico

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Turns out that when the city cuts off your water service — which is what happened to us a few days ago — you can just pick up the phone and buy some more.

There’s a whole industry of private “pipas” here, which are basically big water trucks that pull up to your house and fill up your cistern. They’re in the yellow pages, so you can even shop around for a price. Ours charged us 150 pesos per apartment for 10,000 liters of water.

You ask: But where do they get their water? And if they have water, how come the city can’t use it, instead of shutting off water to residents in the name of conservation? This is the official reason why we don’t have service, by the way — because there isn’t enough water to go around. I asked my landlady this question, and she just shrugged.

Because a person will go insane if they ponder these kinds of things too long, instead I’m going to focus on the positive, which is that we do have water now, thanks to the pipa guys. Our toilets don’t work — we have to fill up the tanks every time we want to flush — but we do have TV and cable and light.

The real water will hopefully come sooner or later. In the meantime, maybe I’ll call a laundry service for all the clothes piling up in the hamper.

The honeymoon’s over, and we have no water

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In the past few days, when people have said to me, “Oh, you’re new! How do you like it here so far?” My response has been — thoughtful pause — “I like it…”

Everything is starting to grate on me, suddenly. The noise. The endless horn-honking. So much freaking horn-honking, I start composing symphonies of horn-honks in my head. Could one have a Hallelujah Chorus of honking? What about that gloomy Transylvania theme song, always blaring in haunted houses? That thing was made to be honked.

Then today, we woke up to find we had no water. It’s a problem throughout our neighborhood. Undeterred in my quest to become the cleanest woman in Mexico, I ended up taking a medieval-type shower, heating up water on the stove and then carrying it into the shower in my largest mixing bowls. It actually worked pretty well, to be honest. Something tells me tomorrow it won’t be as fun.

Other things I don’t understand about this country: Why paying a bill at the bank takes at least an hour. Why getting Internet at home, if you don’t have a phone line, takes two to three weeks. And why men make that weird lip-smacking sound at women walking down the street. It sounds like they need a toothpick.

I’m looking forward to getting out of here, at least for a little while. My friend Joy and I are going to the Yucatan at the end of the month, which will be nice.

So I’ve officially descended from my new-resident high. Still like it here, but it just feels more real. Not as magical.