Expat Life

Mexico City outlaws plastic bags, but the suckers still hang around anyway

August 27, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I didn’t keep up with much Mexico news while I was on vacation, but one headline caught my eye when I got back. The city has apparently outlawed non-biodegradable plastic bags.

This seems too progressive to be true. Mexico adores plastic bags. Somewhere, up in the heavens, there are wee half Mexican, half-plastic-bag children running around, because people here love plastic bags that much. You are offered one with everything, no matter how small the purchase is. (Okay, maybe that’s a lie: I’m not sure they’d offer you one for just, like, gum. But maybe they would at the Extra store near my gym, where the employees do outlandish things like refuse torn currency.)

It’s not just the grocery stores and convenience stores who go plastic-bag crazy. The indoor markets offer them, too, and so do the tianguis — plus they give out separate plastic bags for each batch of fruit and vegetables you buy. Street food stands use them too. Just a few days ago, I noticed a thin plastic, produce-style bag covering the plate that held my burrito. (I think this helps faciliate plate-washing.)

In fact, El Universal says most of Mexico’s plastic bags aren’t given out at the supermarket, but at these smaller types of stores.

Contrary to the CNN Newswire headline that swept various U.S. press outlets, Mexico City businesses don’t have to rush and change anything anytime soon. They’ve got a year to become compliant — which explains why I got several non-biodegradable bags at Superama yesterday. (They’re pictured above.)

Even so, when the year deadline is up, I’d be surprised if the smaller stores made major changes. Too many of them fly under the radar, and the law seems so murky at this point that if I were a business owner, I’d wonder if it was even serious.

Sanctions haven’t been decided on. (Officials are mulling them over the course of the next 90 business days.) And, from what I’ve read, the law doesn’t specify what exactly “biodegradable” means. Is that two years to blend back into the Earth? Five years? An El Universal TV report says that many Mexico City residents don’t even know about the law, nor do they realize bringing their own bag to the supermarket is even an option.

I applaud the Mexico City government’s effort, but this seems like too big of a task to take on. It requires not only educating people about recycling, but somehow keeping an eye on the thousands of businesses in this city, many of whom aren’t officially registered on city tax rolls. A better use of city money might be creating a citywide recycling program, which doesn’t exist here yet.

In the meantime, if anyone wants to reduce their own consumption — I’m guilty of forgetting my reusable bags at the grocery store all the time — reusable bags.com has some great stuff, if you have friends in the U.S. who can mail them to you. (Or hell, make your own produce bags from fabric at the Telas Parisina.) I just bought some reusable produce bags online and can’t wait to try them out.

“Oh man — it’s going to be awesome when the BEARS win the SUPER BOWL!”

August 27, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

This is what my husband said last night, when he draped our new Chicago Bears grill cover over our previously blue-tarp-covered grill.

I gotta admit, it looks way better now. It’s kinda like a big Bears linebacker, about to eat the face off some scrawny Packer.

The time my cleaning lady asked me for a loan

August 26, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

My cleaning lady and I have a routine: she walks in, asks if she can sit down, and I say yes and then offer her water. We usually talk for about 20 minutes or so about life, her daughter, the things I’m doing not to remain “encerrada” in the house all day. (I swear up and down that I like being home, but she doesn’t believe me.) Eventually she grabs her checkered smock and gets to work.

A few weeks ago, maybe five minutes into our conversation, she said, “Can I ask you a question?”

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. A few days earlier, I’d read on Alice’s blog about how her doormen had asked her for money, and not knowing what to do and feeling weird, she gave it to them. A commenter said that whole experience was common, and that next time, she should pretend she didn’t have any cash, lest she be thought of as the American Bank Machine. I wondered if Lola was going to ask me the same thing.

“The thing is,” she began, “my phone is going to be shut off, because I haven’t paid my bill.”

The sinking feeling deepened.

“And… usually I would ask my other boss for a loan” — Lola has another job cleaning corporate apartments — “but I can’t right now, because his mother just died, and he’s been consumed with that.”

I nodded.

“So, I understand if you can’t, but I just thought I would ask: is there any way you could help me, and lend me the money to pay this bill?”

“Of course,” she added quickly, “you can take the money out of my check.”

I asked her how much it was, and she told me — it was about the equivalent of $100.

That’s not a huge amount for us, and we could probably pay it. But I felt offended and kind of ambushed that she was even asking, especially during our chit-chatty girls’ time. Hadn’t we kind of built a semi-friendship here, over these past few months? Didn’t she know that things would be stilted between us from now on, with this debt hanging over her head? Worst of all, after months of working for us, and me talking to her about my family and my life — had she only seen me as a bank the entire time?

I told her I needed to talk to Crayton first.

“Of course,” she said.

“When is the bill due?” I asked.

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow?

“Well,” I said, irritated, “let me run to the supermarket, which I have to do anyway, and I’ll call Crayton on my way there. I’ll let you know what he says.”

She thanked me profusely for even considering it.

On my walk to the grocery store, I tried to think about what to do. I called Crayton, but he didn’t pick up. My inclination was to pay the bill, because I knew she was good for her word. But I couldn’t get over the fact that she’d even asked me in the first place. Didn’t she know that was rude? Why was she not considering how this makes me feel? Was she secretly some sort of housekeeper con-artist who befriended her employer and then escaped with the cash?

Suddenly I realized how American I was acting. Maybe she didn’t know asking for money was rude. Maybe in Mexico, it isn’t rude, because so many people don’t have money and need it badly. Lola is a single mom who works cleaning houses, and the simple fact of the matter is, she can’t afford to pay her bills. And a home telephone line is like gold in this country. You need it to sign up for all sorts of services. Reconnecting a line costs hundreds of dollars.

I called my landlady, who is Mexican, to ask for advice, but she wasn’t home. I emailed an American friend who’s been in Mexico for two years and she basically said, follow your gut. I also finally reached Crayton. He told me he was fine with whatever I wanted to do.

I tried to recognize my American-money-attitude for what it was, and then push it aside. The core issue here was simple: Lola needed money. I had it. Worst comes to worst, we’d be $100 poorer, if she decided not to show up at work the next week. But I trusted that she’d come back.

When I got back from the grocery store, I told her yes, we’d pay the bill for her. But just this once.

“Of course, of course, I wouldn’t ask again,” she said. “I know you’re not rich. But I just thought, well, maybe they can help me.” Then she smiled a big smile, and thanked me over and over.

Since then — we’re going on about three weeks — life has been normal. She’s showed up to work just like she always has. She walks in, puts her stuff down, and asks to sit, and I say yes and offer her water. We chat. I turn on her favorite radio station, hits of the 70s and 80s, while she cleans the kitchen and the bathrooms.

My Mexican landlady did end up calling me back, by the way. She said it’s quite common for a housekeeper to ask for money.

“You’re not obligated to give her anything, but if you trust her, I would do it,” she said. “The fact is, they need it.”

I never asked Lola why she hadn’t paid her bill in five months. (Yes, it was five months overdue.) But she pays to send her daughter to school, so I’m guessing it was something having to do with that. I have my fingers crossed that this doesn’t happen again, because I would really, really hate to say no.

How to feel American again, in less than 24 hours

August 17, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

First: fly to Dallas and drive to Eno’s for American microbrews — an organic Mothership Wit, a Brooklyn Lager, and a Dale’s Pale Ale.

Chow on some thin-crusted, gooey, mozzarella and basil pizza.

Drive past old sites, and see old friends….

Stumble home to Ian’s house at 12:30 a.m., while contemplating the greatness of the American dirty martini, and the Sex with Jackson shot.

Drift off to sleep. Wake up at 5:30, and have your husband surprise you with a first-class flight to Seattle. (!) Have a bloody Mary, because it’s free.

Feel grateful for the existence of the American biscuit.

Later, once in Olympia, meet up with more old friends and drink more microbrews. And eat more pizza.

Wild times at the Mexico-U.S. soccer game

August 13, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Okay, so yeah. We didn’t win. But that’s okay — going to the game yesterday was probably the coolest thing I’ve done here, even if I did get doused with beer. And who knows, we might have been doused with other things, if we would have worn U.S. jerseys. Instead Crayton and I wore red-and-white striped Chivas shirts and kept quiet.

It was a spectacle, though. Thousands and thousands of fans, almost everyone wearing green Mexico jerseys, blowing into horns that made them sound like an angry mass of bees.

Here’s a short video I took that shows what it was like walking in.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JyyNxoikO64&hl=en&fs=1&]

And a few more pictures…

The bomb squad was there, just in case.

We sat in the middle section, behind the American goal in the first half. A helpful Estadio Azteca seat-finder led us to our spot and then asked for a tip.

Then my vocabulary lesson began. When the American goalie kicked the ball across the field, everyone stomped in their seats and yelled, “Ahhhhh….. puutoooooo!” And the guy behind me grumbled: “Putísimo.” (For the non-Spanish speakers, puto basically means “whore.”) Also heard a lot of, “El otro lado, cabrón!” and “Síguela, guey!”

It was weird to not be vocally rooting for anyone. But when Mexico scored their second goal, the whole stadium erupted. Cascades of beer fell from the sky. The guy in front of us, with “Cuau” painted on his back (an abbreviation for Cuauhtemoc Blanco, number 10), kicked his beer cup into the air, an arc of cerveza falling on the folks in front of him. Everyone hugged and laughed and yelled.

Just so you know, I captured a video of this, too, but my Internet connection is so slow that YouTube estimates four hours for it to upload. Ugh. More pictures for you instead:

We left the stadium a little early, not wanting to get caught in the rush of drunk fans. (Did I mention they don’t sell water at this stadium? Only beer, Coke and Fresca.) Got home, exhausted, around 8 p.m. The city had closed off Reforma, a gigantic boulevard near our house, for the celebrating fans.

An American hamburger in Mexico

July 27, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Ever since our new grill finally started working — did I tell you? Our grill WORKS! — we’ve been testing it out, with dumb grins on our faces. Last week we grilled pork ribs and mango slices. Yesterday we invited friends over and decided to make hamburgers. Thick ones. With (hold your breath)… homemade hamburger buns.

In my cooking control-freak mind, we could not attempt the perfect burger (that’s what our new grill was meant for, right?) without having the perfect bun. And so my body woke itself up on Sunday at 7 a.m., because even though I’d gone to bed at midnight the night before, and drank several glasses of wine that day, and therefore needed more sleep dammit — well, my internal clock was set to buns. Sprinkled on top with sesame seeds.

Yesterday morning, with light barely coming through the window, I whisked and kneaded and slapped the dough. I used a dough scraper to create eight little mounds, and then arranged them on a baking sheet. By 9:45 a.m., just in time for me to take a cab to Condesa to eat carnitas breakfast tacos (yes, this is the life I lead), the rolls had just come out of the oven. I cut one in half and tasted it just before walking out the door. Fabulous.

Crayton was in charge of the meat. He bought some ground beef at the tianguis, and used The New York Times’ recent burger recipe. It’s pretty simple: form the burgers into four-by-one inch rounds, refrigerate them, season them, then plop them on the grill. We’d bought a block of extra sharp cheddar at City Market, so when the burgers were just about ready, we covered ’em in cheese. And toasted those buns.

A few slathers of lime-flavored mayonnaise later, and some sliced beefsteak tomato and a few sheathes of iceberg lettuce, and we had a big ol’, very American burger. (Slightly lopsided, but that’s okay. We’re novices.)

We served the burgers with cold chayote salad in a roasted garlic vinaigrette, and spicy sweet potato fries. Dessert was leftover peach ice cream and tuna roja ice, which was just about the prettiest color nieve I’ve ever seen:

Recipes below, if you want to attempt at home. I’m calling it “An American Cookout in Mexico.” And I’m already thinking of how to make the burgers better. Next time we’re doing homemade mayo, y’all. Oooh, or maybe a choice of homemade mayos. Chipotle mayo. Chile morita mayo. Cilantro mayo…
…

The low-rider pesero

July 17, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Yesterday some girlfriends and I had coffee in Polanco, and we decided to take a pesero home. I love taking peseros — they’re the rumbly, green-painted mini-buses that go everywhere in the city, usually for around four pesos. Since the routes aren’t mapped anywhere, you usually have to ask the driver, “Oiga! Van por…?” if you want to get to the right spot.

Jesica asked, and we ended up on the side of Presidente Masaryk, waiting. (As a sidenote, pesero knowledge is valuable stuff, and exchanged among my car-less Roma and Condesa friends like a good taxi service number. If someone knows of a neighborhood pesero that stops at a major location, like the Centro or Polanco, this fact is discussed and shared.)

After a few minutes of waiting, a pesero rolled up, but it wasn’t like any pesero I’d ever seen before. It was lowered. And boxy, like a Toyota Scion. Cheap black tinting film covered half the windows. The drivers-side door opened — squeeeeak — and reggae, the kind I’ve heard at Kaya, wafted out, the bass booming. The three of us girls exchanged looks (whaaa?) and got on. You have to get on quickly, or else the driver will hit the gas and you’ll end up half-hanging out the door.

For the next 20 minutes, until I got off at my stop, the twenty-something-year-old, spiky-haired driver kept the reggae blasting, fast-fowarding past the Pitbull and the Will Smith. (Guess this was a mix.) Everyone in the bus ignored the music and stared straight ahead, but I kind of danced in my seat, which I’m sure made everyone think I was a wierdo.

Then Alice, who was kinda jamming out too, had a great idea.

“I wonder if we can rent out this pesero as a party bus?”

DUDE. Imagínate! A pesero-pub-crawl along Presidente Masaryk. Rolling up to Celtics and Irish Pub Concept in the tinted-windowed, Scion-esque mini-bus. It’d be worth it just to see the look on people’s faces. (Of course, we know this could never happen, but the idea made us laugh. ….Unless maybe…. ?)

As my stop approached, I desperately wanted to get a photo of the pesero’s low-rider exterior. But I couldn’t get my camera ready in time. As soon as I jumped off — peseros stop for like three seconds, and not completely; it’s a California-stop kind of thing — the bus rumbled off down Rio Mississipi, reggae tunes fading away into the distance. Oh well. Thanks for the great ride, dude.

*To hear a snippet of the ride, click on the link under the photo.

Mexican convenience-store wars

July 15, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

One of the things I loved about living in my apartment was that we had an Extra, a local convenience store chain, a half-block away. They accepted my torn peso bills, unlike the other Extra two blocks away. And they had Bud Light. (Kinda nice when you’re feeling homesick.)

Then, last week, Crayton and I were out walking and we noticed it was closed. A sign taped to the door said they were doing inventory. Okay, no biggie.

But then, a few days later, we saw this. Cardboard and newspapers taped in the windows. The sign, gone. For some reason the inventory sign remained, though.

I’m so confused. Usually when Mexican businesses close, the government puts giant “CLAUSURADO” stickers all over the building, like campaign propaganda or something. No clausurado stickers here, but with newspapers in the window, I’m guessing they’re closed for good? It’s been like this for more than a week now.

Since apparently no one is going tell the neighborhood residents the truth (although, now that I think about it, the newstand guy who sits in front of the store might know something), my theory — completely void of facts, but let’s call it a hunch — is that the other Extra, the meanies who don’t take torn peso bills, shut ’em down. They were like: “Look at you. The nice Extra. The one with actually helpful staff. Nope, you can’t make it in this world. Goodbye.”

Or maybe Modelo, who owns Extra, decided that they couldn’t justify the store’s existence with another Extra so close by. (That one’s in front of the American Embassy, where there’s always lots of traffic.) Plus there’s an Oxxo — the most popular Mexican convenience store, where you can buy cell phones and detergent and lots of other wonderful things — only three blocks the other way. Closing in on Extra like a hungry lion.

Now that I think about it, our lonely, cardboard-taped little Extra should never have survived this long. It was doomed from the start.

But what about us poor souls who only want to walk a half-block for some mineral water?

Karaoke, Mexico City style

July 13, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Back in my early twenties in Dallas, I used to hit the same dive-ish karaoke bar on Thursday nights, and close the place down.

I’d sing Snoop Dogg and Mary J. Blige, and slurp double-vodka and Red Bulls. Eventually, as the years went on, I cut back on the vodka and stopped staying out so late on school nights. (And came to regard Red Bull as the devil.) But anytime friends invited me out to sing, I almost always said yes.

On Friday, friends invited Crayton and I to a karaoke bar called Amapola. I’d been to a Mexican karaoke bar once before in Guanajuato, but that place was not like Amapola.

Amapola was actually two bars in one — a cabaret ballroom with velvet furniture and martinis on one side, and a casual piano/karaoke bar on the other. A velvet rope blocked the entrance out front, along with a man with a clipboard. “Good evening, under what name?” he asked us.

Eventually, after walking through a chandelier-accented foyer with marble floors, we made it into the piano bar. It was like the House of Blues in there: black-painted, cavernous, with flashing lights and a live band. Our group had just ordered a bottle of vodka when we arrived. Our server, a man in a tuxedo, poured all the drinks.

I was glad I dressed up, because some of the people here looked like they were headed for the club. (Wait… was this the club?) Guys wore distressed jeans and tight T-shirts; a few of the girls had on skinny jeans and and SJP heels. Most of these people eventually ended up onstage, singing their hearts out in Spanish to live back-up music. I remained at the table, sipping my vodka tonic.

I’d walked in there thinking I would sing something, but a flip through the songbook changed my mind. The English section consisted of Madonna, Four Non Blondes, Aerosmith, AC/DC and a few others. They had Selena — but in front Mexico City fresa-ish crowd, with a live band, was I really going to sing “Como la Flor”? I needed something upbeat. Something that’d get people singing. Something like K-Paz de la Sierra’s “Mi Credo,” which a guy in a Dolce-and-Gabbana belt sang with his distressed-jeaned partner.

Even though I didn’t end up singing, it was highly entertaining to sit in the audience and watch. A woman celebrating her 30th birthday swayed on stage with her friends; a woman from our group sang a lovely ballad. The house band performed during the breaks, and the lead singers were pretty good. I kept asking one of the Mexico natives at our table: “What period is this song from? The 80’s? The 90’s?”

I’d love to do karaoke again, at a place that’s a bit more casual. (I’m assuming they exist here.) Gotta study up and find my go-to Spanish language song though. Hombres G? (Too played out?) Or maybe, with a girlfriend, duet-style… Antes Muerta Que Sencilla? I’m open to suggestions, if you’ve got any.

And then one day, we didn’t have any gas

July 9, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I seriously feel like a homeowner. In the four months we’ve lived here, we’ve suffered through water shortages, cistern blockages, telephone-line installation problems, and now: a broken gas meter.

The gas problems started a few days ago, when the pilot light on our water heater went out. (Unfortunately, I realized this after I’d already gotten into the shower.) I thought: No biggie. Crayton will light it when he gets home. But when he got home, he couldn’t keep the thing lit. It’d shut off as soon as we turned the temperature dial. And then — our stove stopped working. After I’d already poured olive oil into the pan to make sauteed peppers and onions for tostadas. You can see said pan above, on the left.

Called the gas company yesterday, and at first they insisted it wasn’t their problem.

“I’m sure it’s something on your end,” a receptionist calling herself Señora Ibañez said. “If it was a problem with the whole building, we would’ve gotten more phone calls. You’re the only call we’ve gotten.”

Before I could attempt to argue with that ludicrous logic — I’m in a building with three offices where people don’t shower or use the stove; two other residents here have been on vacation — they agreed to send someone over and take a look.

Fast forward to several hours later. Two gas men were standing on our roof. One was maybe 16 years old, wearing skinny jeans and a white belt. The other looked about 40. Pablo was also standing there too, for some reason I wasn’t entirely aware of.

“Here’s your problem,” the older guy told me. Using a wrench, he removed the gas meter from its two pipes and showed it to me. “Your meter was made in 2005. See? It says 2005 here.” He pointed at the 2005 on the front of the meter.

I nodded.

“These things are really cheap, throwaways made in China. You should have gotten a 2008 version installed.”

Yeah yeah yeah dude, I wanted to say. Just get to the point.

“See, if I blow on it here” — he put his lips to one edge of the meter, which had just been on the pipe, and puffed out his cheeks — “The air doesn’t escape. See? It should escape out the other side. That means there’s a blockage somewhere in there. Try it.”

He passed the meter to Pablo, who immediately put his lips on the meter and tried to blow, too.

“How much is a new meter going to cost?” I asked.

“Well… with parts and labor… probably about $1,500 pesos.” This is about $111 dollars.

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

In the background, Pablo was still blowing on the meter.

So. They’re coming back today to install this meter, which is hopefully a 2008 version that won’t break again in six months. They’re also going to repair a leaky “llave,” which is basically a little tube through which the gas passes, in order to reach our meter. That’s included in our 1,500 peso quote. In the meantime, the guy jerry-rigged a pipe so that we could mooch gas off someone else, just so we can take showers today and stuff.

If you are a praying person, please say a little prayer that this is the last home-maintenance issue we have to deal with. I shudder to think what else could happen as time passes here.

And now, to celebrate the temporary return of our gas, I’m going to make roasted peach ice cream.

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