The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Expat Life

Could you give me your food?

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Yesterday, in a burst of stupidity, I decided to walk home from Roma — where I’d been working on that freelance story — to our apartment in Cuauhtemoc. I was hungry and tired and didn’t feel like squeezing myself into the Metrobus. (The thing was so crowded, the doors had actually closed on one man’s belly. Off the bus went, the guy’s stomach sticking out in the night air.) Turned out walking was a worse idea — my laptop bag dug into my shoulder for 30 minutes, my knees ached.

Anyway, I happened to be carrying a to-go container with some leftovers from lunch. As I hurried through the streets, a little girl came up to me.

“Can you give me your food?” she asked. I said no before I even realized what she was saying.

A few minutes later, a teenage boy selling roses approached me. I started shaking my head.

“I’ll give you a rose as a gift,” he said, “if you give me your food.”

Suddenly I realized that among the sea of people hurrying home from work, nobody carried any to-go containers, anywhere. I was the only one.

I said no to that boy, too, and felt like a horrible person. When I got home I dug into the salad and tried not to think of how long it’d been since they’d both eaten fresh produce.

You know you’re a reporter in Mexico when…

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1. You call up a government office and no one answers the phone

2. You stop by the library during operating hours, only to be told they’re closed because they had a huge party the night before

3. You finally enter said library, and the very helpful librarian shows you relevant encyclopedias. Then she sends you out into the street with a stack of books and directions to a local copy shop.

4. You make an appointment to interview someone at their house. You show up at the agreed time. The other person, who is still getting dressed, says, “You’re so punctual!”

There are lots of great things about being a reporter here, too. When I was in Pachuca, people didn’t want to talk to me, but they told me so nicely. No one slammed the door in my face. (I’ve had the door slammed in my face before, but usually when I was inquiring about a dead child.)

On that happy note, I promise I will be blogging more once things calm down. You don’t even want to see my to-do list right now.

A few hundred signatures later, we now have a Mexican bank account

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I’ve been querying friends for a few weeks now on where we should open a bank account.

Pretty much everyone gave a different answer, so a few days ago I visited three banks. In the end I chose Ixe. They required the most pesos to open an account, but the bank executive there was friendly and patient, and he gave me his cell phone number. (As a sidenote, I had the worst experience at Bancomer. The bored-looking rep made me write down all the relevant info on a tiny receipt and he said he’d never heard of their special banking program for foreigners. “Dejame checar,” he said, which means “let me check.” I’m really starting to hate “dejame checar.” It’s a brush-off in sheep’s clothing.) Banamex was okay — I didn’t go with them because the crazy lines there scare me.

So Wednesday we went to Ixe to make it official. The nice exec offered us something to drink from the branch’s tiny cafe, and we declined. I figured it wouldn’t take too long. Naturally, we ended up being there for almost two hours.

We filled out a detailed application that asked us when and where we were born, our nationalities, how long we’ve lived in Mexico. (In the “civil status” section, I left the “regimen conyugal” part blank. Does that mean what I think it does…?) We waited while everything was neatly retyped, and then printed out for us to read. Then we fixed a few errors and waited some more.

After that came the flood of papers. We signed that everything was correct, that we were indeed opening a bank account, that “this is really me, and I am standing here in person, and this is my signature.” Finally we activated our checks and temporary debit card. Interestingly, every check here has to be activated here a special PIN number. I’m guessing that’s so you don’t get robbed blind. Also, even though we opened up a joint account, the checks only come in the principal account holder’s name. (ie, Crayton.) I can sign the checks and get my own debit card. But the checks don’t have my name. Oh well, I’m just the homemaker. I cook things.

We ended up getting renter’s insurance with Ixe, too. So we’re covered if the nearby volcano ever erupts.

Is it safe?

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Since we’ve gotten to San Diego, a lot of friends and family have asked us whether we feel safe in Mexico.

I’m guessing part of that stems from all the recent media coverage about the country being under siege, spring break vacations ruined (or second-guessed), etc. Although, to be fair, we got that question before we moved there and the drug war blew up.

One woman asked me: “You’re not afraid you’re going to get kidnapped?”

My answer: No. (Can I throw in a “con calmita”?) I feel perfectly safe in Mexico. (The fatalist side of me has to throw in a toque madera here.) Seriously though: It’s fine. No one I know is scared they’re going to get kidnapped. I’ve joked about it with a few people, actually. (Eeee, is that bad?) I just try to stay aware of my surroundings, not wear my diamond ring. If speaking English on the street, I try to do so discreetly. And I make sure any taxi I climb into has license plates.

Speaking of taxis: I’ve hailed them off the street with success, but I may stick to authorized stands now. A friend told me a horror story about a friend of hers who hailed a cab in La Condesa in the middle of the day, and ended up raped and dumped on the side of the Periferico.

Hearing something like that still doesn’t make me scared to live in Mexico. Just makes me think: Be wary of hailing a cab in La Condesa. Being scared and shut away in the house all day, what kind of life is that? Then I’d never try all the fabulous licuados, which I miss already.

Like other socially aware Americans in Mexico, I do wish American media coverage wouldn’t generalize so much about the fear and violence that’s supposedly sweeping the country. Maybe that’s the copy editors’ faults.

A few pics of the new place

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The sala/comedor

The sala/comedor


The new pantry area.

The new pantry area.


The newly adorned fridge.

The newly adorned fridge.

I’ll try to remember to take more later. We’re on vacation in California starting tomorrow, so hopefully I’ll post some when we come back.

Oscura o clara?

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Jarra de clara

Most cantinas in Mexico City only offer two types of beer on draft — “oscura,” or dark, or “clara,” meaning light. (The pic above is what we got a few weeks ago when we ordered a pitcher of clara.)

Last night we went to see Crayton’s co-worker’s band at a bar in Condesa. I had three claras, the last one only because the boss was buying. Oh, and I’d just gotten out of an exercise class and I hadn’t eaten in six hours.

Now my head hurts.

I’m going to take a nap. And to think, I was all excited to tell you about the Tae Bo class I took last night, where the instructor made up all these crazy routines and made us walk like ducks across the floor. Maybe another time.

Livin’ la vida fría

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The other day, while the apartment was still empty, I asked my landlady where the thermostat was. It was noon and my extremities felt like ice blocks — this even though I was wearing two sweatshirts, a T-shirt, jeans and socks.

I didn’t know how to say thermostat, so I asked, “Where is that thing on the wall that has the temperature?”

She said in Spanish, “Oh, the heater? There isn’t one.”

Whaa?

“Oh, yeah, it’s that way in any Mexican home. It’s because they make the houses out of cement, which makes things colder inside. I bought a space heater, which works pretty well… ”

Note to self: Buy a space heater and try not to burn the house down.

Guess I won’t be giving away my wool socks after all.

We moved. Time to adjust my American consumption habits.

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We officially moved into our new apartment on Saturday, yippee! Our furniture arrives from the States tomorrow.

Our new place so far has been… interesting. For the following reasons:

1. The day before we moved, our landlady called to tell us they’d shut off water and electricity in the whole building. The neighbors alternate paying the bill each month, and someone paid in the wrong place. (Long story.) Luckily, everything appears to be fine now. Although the faucets sputter a bit if you try to wash laundry at the same time.

2. The very-cute-but-tiny washer/dryer combination sometimes moans and gurgles like it’s alive. It also takes 55 minutes to wash maybe 13 articles of clothing. I’m considering a laundry service. Or dragging out the period of time that I wear a blouse or T-shirt. Oh god, I didn’t even think of towels. I think you can fit maybe two towels in there. (Ok, I’ll stop.)

3. We tried to cook a frozen pizza last night (oh how I miss Amy’s), only to discover that when we turned the oven knob, nothing happened. Only a strong odor of gas. I frantically called my dad, who has spent his life working for the Southern California Gas Company, and asked him what to do. Because, you know, he could fix the problem sight unseen. He promised to look up the stove’s model on the Internet.

Then I called my landlady, who said– DUH — you have to light the pilot manually. (And then she probably hung up the phone muttering, “What have I got myself into?”) But I didn’t know where the pilot was and I didn’t want to burn the house down. Crayton finally just leaned into the oven with a match, and the pilot ignited, and everything was fine. The pizza, unfortunately, was kind of mediocre.

I think things should feel normal sometime around April.

On the upside, we went to the tianguis on Sunday and bought fresh spinach and fruit. Also, there appears to be a cantina around the corner from our house. And a shop that makes “artisanal sweets.” Mmm.

Enjoying the wealth of taxis, with a teensy bit of American guilt

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I’ve tried really hard to be the laid-back foreigner who takes the Metro all the time. Usually on my Metro ride back from wherever I am, though, my American princess side takes over. The Metro is freaking HOT. Like, clothes-sticking-to-your-back hot. Yesterday droplets of sweat literally fell off my face. And although the subway performers are interesting in a cultural kind of way, it’s annoying when the dude with the speaker strapped to his stomach can’t move amid the crush of people, and so you spend the entire ride with cumbia blasting in your ear.

So I’ve started taking taxis. Like, once a day. They’re cheap enough to where I can afford it, but since I’ve taken so many, I now find myself wincing if the ride is more than 60 pesos (about $4USD) and it’s not rush hour. So… I’ve started hailing them off the street. But only the safe taxis (gold and red colored sedans), and only when they have license plates, and a meter.

The issue is that I don’t know how much to tip. A Mexican friend swears that she never tips, unless the guy has gone above and beyond the call of duty. I used to tip 10 pesos all the time. Now, maybe two.

Today the driver who took me to the Centro got a two-peso tip, and we were chatting the whole time about me being a foreigner in a new city. He sent me off with a curt “Buen dia.”

My question: Am I going to get karmic payback for not tipping taxistas?

Interestingly, Crayton’s Spanish conversation partner, who is Mexican, says the Metro is mostly used by the lower-class and the mid-lower class. People with money have cars.

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!