The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

culture

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!

The Mexican concept of time

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Before I moved here, I heard plenty of warnings about how things move at a slower pace. When people say “mañana,” they mean some fuzzy point in the distance, not tomorrow, necessarily. Things that you’d think would take five minutes — fixing the voicemail box on my Mexican cell phone, for instance — end up taking a week.

I’d like to be open-minded and live how the Romans do. (You say tomorrow? Great, I’ll be ready in three days… or four.) But it’s been a little hard to rejigger my American attitude about time, because it’s seeped into the tiniest of decisions.

Yesterday the man who made my business cards told me to meet him at his shop at 1 p.m. I showed up at 1:15 and he wasn’t there. (And his phone number was out of service.) I went and got a carrot/orange juice at a juice bar, and came back at 2, and there he was.

“Traffic was horrible,” he apologized.

Yesterday night, a friend was hosting a birthday barbecue. His invitation said 2 p.m. In the U.S., I would have showed up shortly afterward. But this is Mexico — parties run all night, right? (My one piece of evidence to support this is a Super Bowl party we attended here, which supposedly started at 1 p.m., but at which no one really arrived until 11 or so.)

So, I showed up at 11. The party had already ended.

“Comidas are different,” my friend, an American woman who has lived here for four years, explained. Comida is the word for a barbecue that starts in the mid-afternoon. “By 11 p.m. everyone’s already passed out from drinking all day.”

Now I know. Interestingly, there do seem to be a lot more house parties here than anywhere else I’ve lived. Last night, after the barbecue didn’t work out, we ended up at someone’s house in Escandón, a neighborhood that borders Condesa. At 2 a.m. — when we left — the party was still rolling. I think parties here end as late as 6 a.m. That is something I won’t be joining the Romans in.

My first trip to the Mexican supermarket

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Mayonesa de limon

Lime-flavored mayonnaise!

Jicama

Pre-cut jicama! Perfect for salads. Or snacking. Or whatever.

They also had huge, tube-shaped purple radishes; bags of pre-cut, shredded beets; dried papaya cubes dusted in chili powder (and dried apricots prepared the same way). I wanted to get all that but didn’t. Our fridge is only so big.

Surprisingly, a lot of the products were in English. The cereal aisle was pure General Mills.