The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

apartment

So, in case I didn’t make this clear…

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We got the apartment in Roma! We’ll be in the new place as of June 1.

I’m really excited. When we went back to sign the papers, the apartment looked even better than I remembered. The bedroom I’m using as an office actually gets a lot of sun, and the walk-in closet is muy amplio. We’ll have a pantry and a dishwasher — I thought the latter was an urban legend in Mexico City, but it isn’t! — and two very nice tiled bathrooms. And we will not be on the first floor anymore, living next door to an office, where the owner just happens to take on Sunday-morning construction projects at 8:30 a.m. (This happened to us yesterday, the morning after we went out partying with friends and got home at 3:30. A power drill grinding into the wall when you’ve had just a wee bit too much tequila… not. fun. at all.)

Wish I would’ve thought to take a picture of the building, but I’ll post some later. In the meantime, gotta start hacking away at my moving task list, which is now about 100 items long.

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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Apartment update

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Yesterday morning I called the broker’s wife, who was my original point of contact. She said someone else has already submitted a rental application. (This person looked at the apartment before me, if that matters.)

I said: “But I told your husband to call me if anyone else was even close to submitting any paperwork.”

She said: “Oh, he didn’t tell me that.” The deal still isn’t final; she promised to call me in the next few days if for some reason it doesn’t go through.

Both Crayton and I took this as a sign that the apartment wasn’t right for us — we haven’t spoke to the owner, and we’re not going to fight for a place that has already made us feel weird, before we’ve even moved in. So, this morning I called the Roma apartment broker and told her we’ll take it. Just waiting on a confirmation back.

I really, really appreciate everyone’s thoughtful comments on this whole situation. Even if the apartment hadn’t been taken, we would’ve made it known that the broker’s comments made us uncomfortable (even if recognizing housing discrimination is an Americanism, it’s worth mentioning to people who are courting foreigners as clients), and we would’ve definitely made sure that the Korean family wasn’t being bumped out of line because of us. In the end we weren’t willing to take the apartment and ignore the other factors.

Anyway: thanks, again.

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

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The unused stove

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.

Land lines and wrong numbers

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For some reason, having a home phone line is considered super important in Mexico. When we signed up for cell phone accounts, we had to provide two references, and both people had to have home phones. When I went to the doctor’s office last month, they would not accept my cell phone number on the paperwork. “Don’t you have a home number you can put instead?” the receptionist asked me. I had to look it up on my cell phone because I can never remember it.

The crazy thing is, 99 percent of the time when my home phone line rings, it’s not for me. But I never know immediately, because no one ever identifies themselves, and you have to do this whole polite “buenos días” dance at the beginning.

This is what happened when my phone rang five minutes ago. It’s muy típico.

Me: Bueno.
Woman’s voice: Buenos días.
Me: Buenos días.
Woman: Hi, yes, can you please connect me to Mr. Edgar Rodriguez?
Me: You have the wrong number.
Woman: I’m sorry, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?
Me: I’m sorry, but whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?
Woman: This is Banamex. Do you currently have a bank account with Banamex, or another bank?
Me: I have a bank account already.
Woman: Bueno, hasta–
Me: [click]

All these wrong-number callers are actually starting to make me a little loopy. When one lady called a few weeks ago and asked for Juan Valdarrama or something like that, I said: “Valdarrama?” And she said, “Sí.” Sounding all hopeful. I said: “Oh no, you’ve got the wrong number.” And then I laughed to myself. She kind of sputtered — “I have… I have..?” Then she hung up.

Maybe this means I need a hobby.

Attack of the mosquitoes, part deux

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Last night, somewhere around 4 a.m….

Me, envying how Crayton can sleep with half his body outside the covers, while mine has been tucked inside a sweaty, hot sheet cocoon and yet still gobbled up by mosquitoes: “Why don’t the moquitoes bite you?”

Him, not opening his eyes: “Did you put on your bug spray?”

Me, pathetically: “It smells.”

This reminds me of an exchange from It Happened One Night, one of my favorite old movies. Claudette Colbert plays a rich, spoiled heiress on the lam from her father; Clark Gable is a salty newspaperman in search of a story. They end up sleeping in a barn one night while running from the cops. “I’m hungry,” she huffs. “Eat a carrot,” he offers. “Noo,” she whines. That’s me. I’m the carrot-girl.

Now that the bugs have bitten me on my lower back, ankle, earlobe, and cheekbone in one night, it is time to stop whining and do something about this.

I am breaking out the Vicks Vaporub. Lola says it works.

I’ll start the new treatment after I get back from Puerto Vallarta this weekend, though. Something tells me that crawling into bed slathered in eucalyptus-and-menthol ointment would kind of put a dent in the whole “romantic weekend alone with hubby.”

So close to grilling, yet so far

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After spending a week trying to fill our propane tank — and finally succeeding! — it turns out we have a leak on our grill hose.

Crayton tested everything last night using the method called for in the manual (dish soap/water mixture on the hoses). Sure enough, bubbles appeared near one of the metal fittings.

EEEEEEEEEGGGGGGH. [That’s me cursing the day the grill was born.]

Since we’re still under warranty, he’s going to call customer service in the U.S. and see if they can send us a replacement part. Meanwhile, the little grill sits under our lona and waits. Probably snickering at us.

Could it really be…?

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The gas guy buzzed at 7:35 this morning, as promised. Crayton exchanged his tank for ours… and our tank was full. The dude managed to fill it up!

Now we just gotta try it out. No time for grilling this evening — I’ll be making Mexican chocolate tofu pudding and churros with the girls — but maybe tomorrow.

I really hope our house doesn’t blow up when we try to use this thing. Crayton swore over and over that he told the guy propane.

Home delivery service

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Yesterday, we bought a grill.

New grill

It was too big to fit in a cab, and since we don’t have a car, I figured I’d just have Home Depot deliver it to my house.

“Do you have home delivery service?” I asked the cashier. The word in Spanish is “flete.” I always think of “filete,” and then try not to call it that. Although, now that I think about it, servicio de filete would be awesome.

Anyway, the cashier said yes, but he was young and spoke too fast so I didn’t quite get everything he said. Something about outside.

Too embarrassed to ask further, I wandered outside and looked around, expecting to see some sort of storefront. Nothing. I went next door to Radio Shack and asked the workers there whether they knew anything about flete. They motioned to the parking lot.

The delivery service, it turned out, was a team of three men, a rickety truck and a hand-painted sign reading “Flete Express.” For 180 pesos — the equivalent of $13 — a skinny guy hoisted the grill into the truckbed and then drove me and the grill home. I gave him directions via the Circuito, one of the main highways here, but he ignored them. The truck couldn’t go faster than 10 miles per hour.

While taking note of the cracked passenger side mirror, the coughing engine, the mess of wires where the radio used to be, and the fact that I was seatbelt-less, having reaching for nothing but a frayed strap behind my seat, I tried to engage him in small talk. He looked around my age.

He asked what I was doing in Mexico. I told him my husband worked here, and that I was a housewife. He nodded. “That’s how it should be,” he said. He told me to be careful at stoplights, because men wait there and rob young, unsuspecting women in their cars. (Ok dude, whatever.)

Suddenly I realized we were in the far right lane, and he had to make the next left. The streets were packed; I didn’t think he was going to make it. But somehow, with the agility of a man in a Smart Car, he squeezed his way into the quilt of cars, managing to stay just inches behind everyone, without hitting them with his monstrous bumper. He arrived at the light and made the turn.

“You drive well,” I said.

He looked at me, confused. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, because you…” Cut across traffic. I didn’t know how to say that in Spanish, so I just trailed off.

A few minutes later, we arrived at my house and he unloaded the grill in the middle of the sidewalk, down the street from my house. He sped off while I wondered how to get it inside.

Overall, not too bad for $13.