The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Expat Life

When the Mexican bank takes two months to give you a debit card

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Crayton and I have both talked about the unique system of banking in Mexico.

Probably the biggest issue I’ve had to accept is that joint checking accounts don’t exist within our Mexican bank. There is one “titular,” or main name on the account, and a “co-titular,” or another person who has access but not complete control.

In our case, Crayton is the titular and I’m the co. This means I need his signature a lot.

It didn’t really bother me much until I came back from India. While I was gone, Crayton had canceled our old bank account and opened up a new one without me. (This was due to various only-in-Mexico reasons that I won’t go into here.) The point was: The bank now had no record of my existence. I had to get myself added to the account, and then solicit a new debit card.

So I signed a bunch of forms, and Crayton signed a bunch of forms saying, “Yes, I allow my wife to have access to my account, and to receive a debit card.” We waited. Three weeks passed. While we were on vacation in March in Arizona, the bank called and said oops, you need to sign just one more form.

We came back from Arizona and I signed the form, and Crayton signed the form that allowed me to sign it.

We waited some more. About 2 1/2 weeks later, already a month after I’d requested the original card, I came home and the doorman stopped me. “This is for you,” he said.

He handed me a tiny sticky note. A phone number for a man named Jorge was scribbled on it, along with the words “Ixe.” Ixe is the name of our bank. (If you’re unsure about why random sticky notes make sense in Mexico, please read my short treatise on scratch paper.)

I wasn’t sure what to do with the number. Should I call this Jorge person? While I mulled it over, the phone rang.

“I have your debit card,” a male voice said. Presumably this was Jorge.
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Indulging in the “sobremesa”

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When I first moved to Mexico, I was annoyed, frankly, by the amount of time it took people to eat here.

At a typical restaurant, the waiter would drop off the menu and disappear. He would reappear to take our drink order, and then disappear again.

It was unnerving how no one, except me, cared about this. I’d be at a restaurant frantically trying to catch the waiter’s eye (should I stand up? should I go get him?) while every other Mexican looked happily oblivious. Lounging over their post-dinner coffees like they could have stayed there all night.

In Spanish this after-dinner lingering is called the “sobremesa.” An exact equivalent doesn’t exist in English, but it basically means chatting with friends after a meal and letting the food digest.

Basically, the sobremesa means that meals in Mexico — or rather, lunch, which is the biggest meal of the day — can stretch into two hours. Or even four, if you’re hanging out with your work buddies and throwing back tequilas.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever be one of these sobremesa, hanging-out-in-a-restaurant-all-afternoon types of persons. Patience is not one of my virtues, and after a meal I like to go home. But I’m happy to report that the change is underway.

Consider the evidence:

1. When I was in New York recently, I felt ambushed when the waiter appeared to take our order, five minutes after we sat down. Were we supposed to be reading our menus this whole time? Didn’t everyone else just want to have drinks and sit for awhile? It turned out, no. All the Americans were ready to order except me. I asked everyone nicely if we could please order appetizers first, and then decide later on our main plates.

2. We had lunch with Erik and Jesica recently, and the four of us hadn’t hung out in awhile. We met up at 2 p.m. at Barracuda Diner. At 3:30, we were still talking… at 4 p.m., still talking… and finally at 4:30, Crayton and I had to leave to pick up our friend at the airport. But I could have stayed longer. It was fantastic, this sitting after a meal without a care in the world except the company we were with. Two hours had ticked by, and I hadn’t once fretted about some task that had to be done at home.

3. I now love when the waiter drops off the drink menu and disappears. I think it’s classy.

What about you? Do you like lingering after a meal?

Quintessentially American goodies from New York

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I’m not proud of this behavior, but Crayton and I have become addicted to Combos. They’re these absolutely fake, cheese-filled pretzel or cracker nuggets that happen to taste really good with beer. We bought some at the airport yesterday and spent our first evening back in Mexico City throwing back Combos and watching old movies.

On a more healthier, more substantive note — well, not exactly healthier, but definitely substantive — I wanted to share some pictures of a few more only-in-America goodies I ate in New York last week.

First up was a soft serve cone from Captain Softee, which was my saving grace on those long, humid walks back to the subway. (And surprisingly, it’s not the same thing as Mister Softee — they’re two competing companies.)

This turkey burger game from David Burke, the cafe inside Bloomingdale’s.

Do you see the decadence? Do you see?

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You think I would’ve learned about World Cup fever by now…

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On Thursday, I called the moving company to arrange a pick-up for our moving boxes. It’s a useful service — we pay a deposit for the boxes, and get our money back if we return them within 30 days. The man on the phone said a truck could pick up the boxes the next day, between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m.

I was so excited at the thought of our boxes disappearing (they’re currently stacked up behind the couch) that I said yes immediately.

Only later on Thursday night did I realize: Wait. Friday morning is the World Cup. Mexico is playing South Africa.

Oh, crap.

What could I do? I could’ve called the moving company early Friday morning and said forget it, cancel the appointment. But part of me thought they really might show up. They’re a highly recommended moving service, a professional company that helped move our stuff from the States into Mexico. And I wanted those boxes gone.

So I waited, and waited. I watched the Mexico-South Africa game on TV and g-chatted with Jesica, who said, “You really didn’t think they were going to show up at 10, did you?”

Noon came and went, and then 1. Then it was 1:45.

I called the moving company and got voicemail.

Left a polite message, but inside I was angry. Not at them, but at me. How did I get sucked into believing that my time is more valuable than the first World Cup game? Lesley, you live in Mexico. It’s just the way things work here.

I’m going to consult my Panini album for the game schedule, and call back again on Monday. Hopefully I can arrange a pick up when the World Game isn’t on — or at the very least, when Mexico isn’t playing.

Sixteen months in Mexico, and how far we’ve come

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It hit me yesterday that a year ago, we probably couldn’t have done any of this.

Our Spanish skills weren’t yet good enough to find a place completely on our own, or to call and transfer our cable and home phone accounts to the new place. I still internally scream at Telmex for charging me 280 pesos to change my address, but at least I understand the customer service lady. And I don’t throw the phone down in disgust when nobody picks up until the fourth try.

A year ago, it would’ve been much more stressful to navigate the rental contract and fiador intricacies; I would’ve worried about seeming like a helpless gringo to my new landlord. I’m still slightly helpless — I rely on “cómo se llama, es que no sé la palabra en español” a lot — but at least I knew to ask her for a copy of the last electric bill, and a copy of her insurance policy. And dude: she is a sophisticated lady, and not, as my mom used to say, one of my little friends. (One of my mom’s popular lines when I was a teenager: “Don’t use that tone with me missy, I’m not one of your little friends.”) Our landlady is a professional person, and I am able to be completely professional with her.

We’re now comfortable with the small things about the move, like how the heck we’re going to hang the TV up on the wall. (Hiring a local service.) And which dear friends we could ask to take some of our framed pictures over in their SUV, to lessen the chances of the movers breaking anything. (Thanks, Carlos and Daniela.)

What I’m trying to say with all of this is: it’s funny how you go about realizing that your new home is truly home. I’d felt like that after six months here; but really, it’s still continuing to happen, slowly, with these types of small achievements. And all this makes me feel really good, and proud, because you know — I want to embrace life here. That was the whole point of moving to Mexico City.

I don’t often allow myself any pats on the back, but this time I am allowing myself a tiny one. We are chilagos, people. Chilangos!

Pictures of the new place to come.

The Top 10 Tips to finding an apartment for rent in Mexico City

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Apartment-hunting is never easy, but as a foreigner living in a different country, it’s pretty darn taxing.

Over the past three months, I’ve encountered quite a few issues, most of them in the language-and-culture department. Do I use tú with the broker, or usted? How do you say “I want to put a deposit down to hold this apartment”? (I eventually figured out that to “hold” an apartment you’re interested in is to “apartarlo.”) And then there’s the case when the broker’s values might conflict with your own.

Since Joan recently asked for help in the comments, I thought I’d share some of the things I’ve learned with you, in case anyone else happens to be in the same situation. After the jump: Lesley’s Top 10 Tips to Renting an Apartment in Mexico City.
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Racism and classism in Mexico City

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Crayton and I have been searching for apartments for the past three months. There’s nothing wrong with our current place, but after more than a year here, I’ve thought it’d be great to have more space and more light.

A few days ago, we finally found a place we loved. It’s huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Hardwood floors, a master bedroom with enough space for a library/reading area, and a rooftop area where we could put our grill. The dining area has enough space to fit a table for eight people, which is a sueño of mine, because my current table only seats four. (I could have more dinner parties!) The apartment is close to Crayton’s job, our gym and my yoga studio.

When we were leaving, we told the broker that we were very interested.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “There’s another couple who’s interested too, a couple with a baby, but I think the apartment owner will prefer you over them.”

“Why?” we asked.

“They’re Koreans,” he said.

I waited for him to go on. Like — they’re Koreans and they happen to be drug dealers. Or they’re Korean and they happen to have 12 children, and the family won’t fit in the apartment. But the man didn’t say anything else.

“What’s wrong with Koreans?” Crayton asked.

“Oh you know,” the broker said. “They’re very informal.” The word he used was “informales.” “They don’t pay their rent on time. Sometimes they vacate before the contract’s up.”
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The ladies of Mexican weather forecasting

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Lesley’s husband Crayton is filling in this week with a few posts.

Allow me to introduce you to Angie González.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ROLCR9LzHDg&hl=es_ES&fs=1&]

González is the afternoon weather presenter (I am going to try to avoid using the term “weathergirl” or “chica de la clima,” as they’re known around here) on Milenio, one of Mexico’s 24-hour news channels. Google doesn’t turn up much about her, except that she’s from Monterrey, like many of her female colleagues. Regias, as women from Monterrey are known, have a reputation in Mexico for exquisite beauty.

At my place of work, we have Milenio on all day long on mute, and González caps off an all-day parade of heavily made-up, scantily clad young women telling us whether to expect rain. Other networks also employ attractive women, but Milenio clearly pushes the boundaries farthest in terms of attire and invitation to ogle.

I’m accustomed to the U.S. version of the weather presenter, a guy in a suit with very white teeth and a hokey sense of humor, Willard Scott-style. But that’s not to say that the U.S. is immune or above this sort of thing. Bobbie Keith kept morale up during the Vietnam War. Jill Nicolini is a traffic reporter, but appears to serve the same purpose at New York’s WPIX (and with excellent screen presence and a good sense of humor, I must say).

Weather presenters have been around almost as long as TV. (Chicago’s Clint Youle was the first national weather presenter in the U.S. in 1949.) And people are supposed to be relatively attractive on TV. As long as that’s the case, broadcasters are going to push boundaries, especially with something like weather forecasting that doesn’t require a particularly serious or grave presence. (I think well-researched post about this weather-presenting cheesecake being more common in warm-weather climates, but I think it’s probably because those places have fewer weather disasters, like snowstorms, that might require a weather presenter with more gravitas.)

I’m not going to act like I don’t enjoy seeing González and Milenio’s other presenters appear on the screen. It would be disingenuous of me to say that. But the lengths to which Milenio has gone in its objectification are disconcerting. González is a pretty lady, but she’s also an animated person on TV and would do just fine in more professional attire. Milenio ought to cut this out.

I leave you with Chicago’s “weather bunny,” Kelly Bundy:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32YKaPxAxwA&hl=es_ES&fs=1&]

America, the land of dry hands

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Lesley’s husband Crayton is filling in this week with a few posts.

Oh how I crave your American technology. Mexico isn’t a total backwater, but every time I return to the U.S., I get the feeling I’ve stepped at least a few years into the future. Look at all those high-definition channels you guys have! Your Internet speeds are so fast! And OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO THE HAND DRYERS?

Back when I lived in the States, oh those many months ago, public restroom hand dryers were a thing to be mocked. Everyone knew they didn’t actually dry hands. They just made them less damp, enough so that you could wipe them on your pants to finish the job.

But apparently in the past year, serious advances have been made in hand dryer technology. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Dyson Airblade.

What is this strange contraption?

Image from dysonairblade.com

The Airblade site claims that the device “literally scrapes water from hands,” which sounds painful. But all you do is dip your hands in the well and draw them out slowly as the thing basically vacuums the water off of you. BOOM. Dry hands.

I encountered the Airblade in a restroom at True Food Kitchen in Phoenix. I must have looked like an unfrozen caveman encountering this strange device, peering at its instructions skeptically, dipping my hands in gingerly. But it worked as advertised, smoothly and quietly, in about 10 seconds.

On the other side of the spectrum, but equally impressive, is the Xlerator:

ZOMG

Image from exceldryer.com

Found this bad boy at an Edwards movie theater in San Diego. Where the Airblade is delicate and refined, the Xlerator is an industrial-strength blast of air that nukes the water off your hands. Regular hand dryers feel like a summer breeze compared to this blowhard. Most impressive.

Will these technological breakthroughs change the hand dryer vs. paper towel debate? Both manufacturers claim, at least, that their devices are more energy efficent than paper towels.

Anyway, way to go America! Way to finally get those hands dry! This gives me hope that the next time I’m back home, my mother country will have tackled some other seemingly insurmountable problem. I’m thinking college football playoff.

Cuenta de horrores

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While Lesley’s studying at an ashram in India, her husband Crayton is guest-posting. Please be kind to him.

I had to go to the bank today.

Readers who have lived in Mexico just experienced an involuntary shudder of dread. It’s never fun to go to the bank, anywhere, but Mexico’s obsession with paperwork makes the experience downright hellish here.

And the thing is, my bank is actually relatively good! It’s one of the smaller ones, so there aren’t huge lines at the local branch, the people are pretty friendly, and the branch manager saw Lesley’s name on one of my forms and asked if a previous problem she had was resolved, which is like the closest I’ve ever gotten to a Jimmy Stewart, Wonderful Life-style banking experience.

(One downside of having a smaller Mexican bank: It’s harder to deliver money to anyone else. Most services in Mexico, from the electric company to a cooking class, require you to transfer money directly from your account to theirs to make a payment. This can be done through an interbank account number known as a CLABE, but for some reason, instead of just noting what their CLABE is, a lot of services will just provide a list of their account numbers at the nation’s largest banks. So for a fictional example, if I’m a client of Banco Gigante, I just look for the power company’s Banco Gigante account number on my bill and pay accordingly. It’s an intrabank transfer from one account to the other, and Banco Gigante can handle it. But if I’m a client of little Banco Chiquito, the power company probably doesn’t have a Banco Chiquito account, so I have to call the power company and ask what their Banco Gigante CLABE is before I can pay. It’s a big pain.

“Why don’t you just write a check?” you ask. HA! Checks technically exist here, but I have never seen them used. People don’t even write checks to family members. They just do bank transfers. Assuming they can figure out each other’s CLABEs. Anyway. Is this practice normal in other countries? I only know the American way, which is that we write checks, and when you get a check you assume it will clear. (Or maybe now you use Paypal, I guess.) That’s just how it’s done. But maybe the U.S. is an aberration? I do remember in India, our friend Vikas attempted to pay for a hotel with an advance bank transfer, but it didn’t go through and he ended up having to pay in cash. So there’s that.)

Even the good banks can’t get around that insatiable Mexican need, in government and in business, for clients to produce documents proving every detail of their lives. The phone bill is proof of residence, but the cable bill won’t suffice, unless you get digital phone service through your cable provider, I learned today. I also did not have an acceptable visa, not because my visa isn’t legit, but because they just don’t encounter visas like it very often. But they decided they could make an exception for me. Thanks, guys.

Once my transaction was approved in principle, the mounds of paperwork began. Banks like for you to sign, not just initial, every page of a contract. Including the copies you’ll be keeping yourself. They also like for your signatures to match as closely as possible, and they will scrutinize your handwriting like fortune-tellers to divine whether you are the same person who just signed that other page five seconds ago. (Actually the worst experience I had like that was in the tax office, where the clerk kept made me re-sign my name about five times to get my signature matching perfectly with the one in my visa.)

It took three hours to get my business done. On the plus side, they gave me free coffee.