The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Reflections

Back from San Diego

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Flamingos

We’re back now. It’s kind of weird to be here again. Although, on a happy note, I did just discover that the crispy, heart-shaped orejita cookies they sell at Starbucks (where I am right now using the Internet) are actually really good. Way better than the chocolate-covered graham crackers they sell in the U.S.

If you’re ever in San Diego, you must try The Linkery, an organic, slow-food type of place that makes its own sausage. If you’re in Culver City and you want a drink and a light nosh, we really enjoyed The Mandrake.

And, um… if you live in DF and don’t know the two-for-one drink greatness that is Papa Bill’s, you must try it out. It’s totally the annoying frat-boy-cousin version of T.G.I. Friday’s, but they have awesome music. (In the span of 10 minutes, we heard CeCe Peniston, Roxette and Daddy Yankee.) Oh, and they have chips and salsa there. And our waiter wore a top hat.

The picture above is from our trip to the San Diego Zoo with my nieces and nephew. I wanted to post more, but the Internet is too slow.

Not quite Mexican, and not quite American either

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When we got to the San Diego airport last Saturday, I immediately felt a twinge of culture shock. People were so much taller. The spaces were so much larger. Hell, the people were so much larger. And there was so much… stuff. Shop after shop of T-shirts, key chains, candy. I missed Mexico. I missed seeing fresh-squeezed orange juice on every corner and hearing the “Diez peso, diez peso, diez peso” over and over again from the people pushing their food carts.

Now that we’ve been here for six days, and wandered around the local lake, and sipped blood orange cocktails at Hash House A Go Go, my feelings have flipped. Part of me doesn’t want to go back. Life is so easy and comfortable here. We speak a language we know, we use the tap water to brush our teeth, I wear my wedding ring in public without a second thought. I can take as many things in my purse as I want — my entire wallet and all my credit cards! — and hang my purse on the back of my chair at a restaurant without worrying that it’s going to get stolen.

I know I just wrote a post about how safe I feel in Mexico, and it’s true, I do feel safe there. But I don’t think I’ve completely relaxed there yet. My guard is always up. Like Joy commented, you’re always taking certain precautions. It’s a fact of life. I just didn’t really realize how many precautions until I came back to the U.S.

We return tomorrow morning. I have lots of boxes to unpack, writing assignments to start. I’m looking forward to walking again and getting a big glass of orange/carrot juice from the guy on the corner of our street.

Jack in the Box has a new logo? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

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jack-in-the-box-logo

Apparently they started testing this in San Diego late last year. When I saw it — not at the location above, but another one near my dad’s house in Scripps Ranch — I think I gasped. My dad said, “Oh yeah, you haven’t seen those commercials?”

Me: “I live in Mexico City now.”

Dad: “Yeah. Well, they operated on Jack.”

Me: “How could I see the commercial? They don’t show that in Mexico City. All the commercials there are in Spanish. They have commercials of, like, Amazon women swinging through the jungle and then men smelling their armpits.”

Crayton: “Wait… Jack had an operation?”

Photo via Food Beast

Post-move exhaustion, euphoria, no sé que

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The movers have come and gone. Nothing broke except a chip-n-dip plate I bought at the Crate & Barrel outlet like four years ago and didn’t use much. I miss Crate & Barrel outlet.

I got really stressed when they arrived yesterday morning, because I was positive nothing would fit, we’d have an ugly cluttered house, etc. But then I told myself to take three deep breaths and deal with it.

And it was fine. Luckily we have a storage space on the roof. Used it to put the extra stemware, my bags of extra fabric (will get around to sewing pillows someday), ugly post-modern CD racks from 1999, etc. I’ve already unpacked the kitchen — my pantry AND my half-eaten chocolate bar arrived intact! — and put the plates and bowls away. It’s all going to be fine. I’m not too worried anymore. (Well, kind of worried…. where in the hell am I going to put that rolling kitchen cart?) But we’ll figure it out. If I have a cluttered kitchen, so what. Everyone has a cluttered kitchen in Mexico. Kitchens are freaking tiny here.

It’s just nice to have our stuff again. I have a proper paring knife, people. A PARING KNIFE. It sliced my apples in such perfect, smooth slices, I almost cried out in ecstasy.

My refrigerator magnets were one of the first things I put up, along with what used to cover our fridge in Dallas: the program from our wedding, last year’s Christmas card from Crayton’s mom, photos of our friends. After drinking a beer and feeling kinda sentimental, I added a new photo — one of me and two of my best girlfriends, giggling at Cosmo’s, holding beers. (Or were they Blasters?)

I miss them, but it’s good. My twenties are over. Now the new journey starts.

Pics of the box-filled apartment to come!

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!

Joining the Newcomers Club, and being a woman of leisure

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On the advice of a friend, I joined the Newcomers Club a few days ago. It’s a social organization for English-speaking women, and they offer lots of helpful information on where to find English-speaking doctors, hairstylists, veterinarians, handymen, etc. They also host monthly coffees for expat wives (is that me? Am I really an “expat wife”?), and tours of museums and historical monuments around town.

They held an orientation for new members this morning. It was… eye-opening.
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On being a half-foreigner in Mexico

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The other day, a new friend, Alice, asked me if people often think I’m Mexican. I said yes, but added that it’s not that great because the myth is destroyed as soon as I open my mouth. Once I start talking, most people give me a confused, “Wait… what the hell are you?” kind of look. This happens several times a day.

Ten years ago, I would have hated that look. HATED it. I would’ve gone home, ashamed, and kicked myself for being American and not Mexican, for not knowing Spanish, for being a dumb pocha.

Now that I’m older and a lot more comfortable with my American identity (I’m guessing age has something do to with that), I probably misspoke a little bit to Alice, because being an English-dominant Chicana here bothers me a lot less. Nothing can change the fact that I grew up in the U.S. watching G.I. Joe and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and eating mac n’ cheese and hot dogs, and speaking English my whole life. So why put so much pressure on myself?

To be honest, the confused-look makes me feel kind of unique. Not everyone receives it. Only the 1-out-of-1000 who happen to look like they blend in, but — surprise! — they don’t.

Really, what I’ve been struck by most in living here so far is not feeling like a foreigner, but blending in for the first time. In the Metro, among the sea of brown faces, I’m just another girl walking with her head down, trying to change subway lines as quickly as possible. No one looks twice. In the subway in Boston, the lost Spanish-speaking tourists always flocked to me and asked for directions.

Walking around Mexico City, I’m the only one who knows that I don’t blend in completely. But that’s kinda the secret thrill. Not a burden.

A last name that’s not so unusual anymore

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Pretty much everywhere I’ve ever lived, people have mangled the pronunciation and spelling of my last name. The one exception was San Antonio, Tex., where some people asked, “Are you related to Coach?”

When I worked in the Dallas suburbs, it was particularly horrible. I’d spell my last name, “T-E-L…” And they’d say, “T-E-O?” Me: “No, L!” Them: “O?” Crayton said I should have been pronouncing “L” as the long, drawn-out Southern “Aayyyll,” instead of my clipped California-style “El.” I refused to do it.

Anyway. No longer do I have to worry about such things:

Tellez watch store 1

Tellez store 2

Things I love about Mexico City today

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1. The arcade inside the Chapultepec Metro station.

2. Finding pineapple preserves at a deli in La Roma.

3. That, if I’m feeling hungry on my apartment search, I can stop at a taco stand and get a taco de alambre, covered in spicy green salsa, for 35 cents. And then stand there and eat it on a plastic plate with everyone else, including two middle-aged women in slacks.

4. The fact that this salad only cost me $3:

Kebab salad from Juanjo's

5. The view from this apartment building’s rooftop deck:

Veracruz apartment view

6. That a man washing his car on the sidewalk, using a bowl to rinse it with water, will stop when I get close and turn and smile at me, and say “Pase.”

7. The purples and yellows and oranges of the buildings on Calle Tabasco, and their old-fashioned wrought-iron balconies.

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The mystic fetish taxista

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I took a cab home a few days ago from the World Trade Center, after my day at the Chocolate Experience. The cab came from a sitio, which is an authorized taxi stand in Mexico City. (This is supposed to be much safer than hailing one off the street, since sitio stands have a record of your destination and the taxi license number.)

The driver was a friendly 40s-ish man with graying hair. We started chatting and I mentioned that it was my third day in Mexico. “Felicidades!” he said, clasping his hands and giving me the universal “victory” gesture. He asked how I was, and I said I was tired from walking around all day.

“You know,” he said, “if you massage your feet in three spots around the ball of your foot, you’ll feel much better. I promise.”

A few minutes later, he asked: “Do you know what podomancia is?”

Podo-what?

“Podomancia. It’s the science of reading feet. You know, like you read palms. You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their feet.”

“Interesante,” I murmured.

He asked if I wore high-heeled shoes and I said sometimes. He asked if I had a high arch, and I said yes. He recommended one- or two-inch heels as easiest on my spine, and added some technical stuff about my vertebrae that I didn’t quite understand.

Then he continued, “I can tell about you already that you have a great positive energy, and people around you like to be near you. You’re also busy all the time, which is why your feet hurt. It’s hard for you to sit still. Is that true or not?”

It was true — or at least the latter part. I thought, he knows all this and he hasn’t even looked at my feet yet?

“If you want I can take a look at your feet,” he added.
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