The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

cultural confusion

Saying goodbye like a true Chilango

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Last night, a friend invited me for beers at Covadonga, a cool little cantina in Roma. She was with a big group of friends, all of whom were Mexican.

We all chatted and had fun, and at about 1 a.m., I stood up to leave. “Well, I guess I’m headed out,” I announced.

A few people looked over and smiled, but then returned to their conversations. I thought it was weird: Aren’t they going to say goodbye? Am I really that lame of an American?

Then I remembered — announcing one’s departure is, in itself, not a proper Mexican goodbye. A friend explained to me a few months ago that Mexicans walk up to everyone in the room upon leaving, kissing each person on the cheek, giving each person a small hug. They even say goodbye to strangers they didn’t speak to all night.

I remember thinking that was charming. Mexicans are so nice. And so — Ron Burgundy’s voice echoing in my head: “When in Rome…” — I did exactly as I remembered, walking up to each person, giving them a small kiss on the cheek. My brain froze on what to say (mucho gusto? Nos vemos?), and so I just smiled and said bye and that was it.

Felt proud of myself, though, walking out to the taxi. Maybe I will get this Mexico-living thing down yet.

Maybe this is what culture shock feels like

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I’m starting to feel strange when I visit the U.S. I’m… anxious. Uncomfortable. I hate watching home decorating shows, because everyone has a huge home and it seems wasteful. I hate going to Bed Bath & Beyond because I can’t buy anything there for my own home — see the shower caddy photo — and I’m frustrated that I don’t have access to such a store in Mexico. Even watching TV at my mom’s house annoys me, because there are so many commercials, and so many shows. How does anyone have time to watch these shows? There’s a reality show about dog groomers hosted by Jai Rodriguez, for goddsakes. I love me some Jai. But Groomer Has It? Like, really?

I don’t know what to make of this. I feel like the girl in the movie who meets Prince Charming, but seethes to everyone, “I hate him!” because she can’t bring herself to admit that she’s in love.

Really, visiting the U.S. makes me suddenly wish I lived there again, and it gets harder to go back to Mexico because I haven’t completely adjusted here yet. It’s hard to conjure up a “Who cares if we have no water?” attitude while taking a hot shower and drinking glassfuls of Olympia tap water, ya know? Yet at the same time, I can’t stop talking about Mexico to my American friends, and the yummy taco shop near our house, and the tianguis, and the little juice guy on the corner. I feel stuck between both places.

The solution seems to be not visiting the U.S. for a while. Good thing, we won’t be there again until late August. And on that trip, I’m going to go to H&M and that’s it. No BB&B.

Tips on riding the metro in Mexico City

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Mexico City metro sign

I’ve taken the metro a lot in the past few days, while conducting what I’m now calling The House Search of All House Searches.

(I am so exhausted right now, Crayton isn’t even laughing at my jokes. Is it wrong to try and come up with a joke with the words “guten tag”?)

Anyway, even though the metro is generally hot and crowded, you can’t beat the two-peso (roughly 14-cent) price. There are a few weird things I’ve noticed though…
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A water crisis in Mexico City, if you don’t have money

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Last weekend, the city’s water crisis was all over the news. From what I gathered — and I’m still figuring out how to read newspapers in Spanish — the government planned to shut off water to certain neighborhoods during the last three days of the month, in order to conserve and fix problems with the water system.

I couldn’t ever figure out which neighborhoods would be affected, so I assumed we’d wake up Saturday morning without water. Which, for us, isn’t that huge of a deal — we have purified water to drink and cook with. (And showers, eh, they can wait on the weekend.)

So on Saturday, I turned on the faucets. They worked normally. Then I looked at the paper online. Some of DF’s outlying neighborhoods — where people can’t afford to buy water — didn’t have any.

The fact that these people had no water and we did made no sense to me. If you’re going to shut off water for conservation purposes, why not do it city-wide? I told this to a friend of mine, and she said the city would never shut off water in our neighborhood. Too many embassy employees live here.

Suddenly I felt bad for being so blase about the lack of water in the first place. Of course we can buy our own. We just walk down the street to the supermarket, or tell our doorman we’re out, and boom. It’s there. It’s so easy to forget that there are thousands of people who can’t do this.

Of course, this raises the eternal question about Mexico, which is why so many people here still live in poverty, while the rich — or even solidly middle-class — lead normal first-world lives. It’s part of what makes the city so chaotic and fascinating, with entrepreneurs crowding the subways and the neighborhood knife-sharpener whistling down the street. But the concept of having so much more than so many other people is a hard thing to get used to. I don’t know that I ever will, to be honest.

I was chatting with Lola, our housekeeper, the other day and she mentioned she had a 12-year-old daughter. “But only one,” she said. “I didn’t want another because it’s too tough in this world.”

Crossing the street and trying not to get killed

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One of the most time-consuming decisions I make every day is deciding when to cross the street. No one really follows the traffic laws around here, so even if you’re crossing legally, with the light, someone might still bear down on you like you don’t exist.

So when can you actually go?

Obviously, when there’s a break in traffic. But that’s not the case 90 percent of the time. My second day here I misjudged the distance of an oncoming car and got so scared, I froze in the middle of the street, like a deer in headlights. Luckily the guy let me go.

Lately I’ve done this weird half-hesitation, half-step-into-the-street thing, and I think it just makes people nervous. Drivers slow down and look at me like, “What the hell are you doing?” I’ve also tried following other people, but sometimes they’re maniacs who step in front of moving cars. (Sorry, can’t do that yet.) Crayton says you just have to cross at the slightest gap in traffic, and that you can’t hesitate or they’ll run you over. I say: You do your thing, I’ll do mine.

Funnily enough, on my apartment search today, I was chatting with the broker about how I’m too scared to drive in Mexico City. She said, half-joking: “Oh no, walking is much more dangerous.”

How to leave a tip in a Mexican restaurant

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Last night, our first night in town, we had dinner at El Bajio, a Veracruz-style Mexican place in the neighborhood. It was cute: Bright textiles on the walls, baskets, orange napkins. I had the ceviche verde, which was decent, and a yummy ensalada de nopales with strips of grilled panela. Crayton had enchiladas verdes. (When my salad arrived, Crayton eyed the white cheese warily. “What is that? Tofu?” I gave him a Look. “It’s CHEESE.”)

When it came time to pay the bill, the waiter asked us something about closing the account, or leaving it open. We said to close it. He looked confused. (And maybe a little offended.)

“Close it?” he asked again.

“Yes, yes,” I said. He didn’t move. He asked again if we wanted to leave it open.

Finally, Crayton said yes, okay, leave it open. The waiter whisked away the check and our credit card, and brought it back a few minutes later. We noticed nothing amiss: The receipt showed our final bill, and a space to leave a tip. Crayton wrote in the tip and I was ready to go. He suggested we stay and ask the waiter what “leave it open” meant.

I have this weird thing about not wanting to seem like a tourist, but these are the cultural things we need to understand. (Right?)

So we called the waiter back and I explained that we just moved here from the U.S., and what did this “leave it open” thing mean? The waiter very graciously said that it meant the customer would write in a tip on his/her own. And then he said some other stuff we didn’t understand. (About how some customers write the wrong amount on the check? Huh?)

Now we know, but still, kinda weird. Has anyone else in Mexico City ever experienced this?