Goodbyes

Finally, the tables have been turned on me.

After years of moving cities/states/countries with alarming regularity, this week I finally get to know how it feels to have someone leave ME.

I don't like it at all.

Two years ago, after living in Saltillo for about 6 months and desperate for friends, I was stalking all Blogger accounts registered in Saltillo, hoping to stumble upon potential quality friends. (Yes, I am THAT kind of stalker!) I was pretty interested in a missionary family, but after trolling farther down the list, I stumbled upon her: we were born within a month of each other, had our first children (both girls) within 4 months of each other, were married and moved to Mexico within two months of each other . . . I HAD to get to know this woman!

I send her a message, and she must have been just about as excited to meet me, as she called me the very next day. Turned out, I was the first person she was able to speak English with since she moved to Mexico (in almost two years).

We've had a great two years and have found a lovely community of other ex-pats in the meantime. (I've also found some Mexican friends, too. Whew!)

But, for a variety of good reasons, last fall my friend and her husband decided to apply for a resident visa for her husband, so they could move to the US. It's been a long, insane, headache-inducing process and, after 3 trips to Ciudad Juarez for visa appointments, my friend's husband finally got his visa last month. They gave themselves a month to pack up their life here, say their goodbyes, and oh-so-appropriately be in the US in time for the 4th of July.

That month just ended. They're gone. Entire days go by where my phone doesn't even ring once. *sigh* (OK, it rang just a little bit ago, at a time when my friend often calls, and I thought to myself, "Who on earth is calling me? It can't be ________. Who else would call me?" So thanks, Panchita for the call--it's good to know I do have other friends!) ;)

But really, all month (or ever since last fall when they announced their plans), I haven't focused on my own sadness of losing them. After all, as already mentioned, I've moved so many times and left so many people, that I know how it goes. Life goes on. I was mostly worried about Clara and how she'd take the change. After all, she's always talking about my friend's daughter. Often when a bus drives past the house, she asks to take a bus ride to visit her friend. While Clara might have no idea what "goodbye" means, I did. I feared for both girls. After all, it's not every day that you say goodbye to your first friend.

Good thing that their move was timed so close to our visit to my parents' house, so I could at least explain to her that her friend was going to take an airplane ride (just like Clara did) so stay with her grandparents (just like Clara did). Then I mention that Friend will be living with her grandparents and not coming back. Now that they've left, she talks about Friend being with her Grandma. Whenever she hears an airplane, she talks about Friend being on the airplane. So, I think that in her two-year-old way, she is getting it.

We'll see what happens when weeks go by and she doesn't get to see her little friend.

But, however painful goodbyes are, I am really very excited for my friend and her family on their new adventure and am anxiously looking forward to hearing how they transition to life in the US. That will be another story worth the telling!

Five Hours?!?

My fears for the last week centered around the five hour layover I faced in Dallas on Monday. Two year old in tow.

Five hours in an airport with a two-year-old?!? What will we do?

I researched the airport, all available play areas (DFW has at least TWO!), planned on riding the inter-terminal train until the novelty wore off, and letting Clara take her sweet time to eat a meal (which normally lasts at least an hour . . . endless frustration for me!).

Quite unfortunately, the airport itself helped me out considerably with our kill-time conundrum. In the past, I've always breezed through customs and immigration at DFW. On Monday, passing our bags through customs took around TWO HOURS. The line started at the baggage claims and then snaked its way through the entire baggage claim area. Thank goodness we had that layover!

Once we were finally free to wander the airport, we explored Terminal D and one of their huge, glass sculptures. Once Clara warmed up to it, she loved running through that labyrinth, giggling at me on opposite sides of the glass, screeching as I chased after her. My apologies to my fellow travelers in Terminal D. I don't usually let my daughter run amok in public, but as she was just screeching in glee, running off some steam, I figured better that she was loud in public rather than being loud on the airplane.

Later, we sat down with two other small children and their parents at the Children's Play Area in Terminal D, which quite unfortunately only had a bead chaser as the sole working toy. Not having one at home, it was a novelty for Clara, and she also thought rearranging the chairs and climbing on stuffed "pigs" was delightful, so it worked for her. It could be disappointing for a higher-energy child.

Our flight left from Terminal B, so we took the train over there (also a hit with the transportation-loving toddler). I would have liked to ride around the entire airport, but time was actually against us! While it's not listed on DFW's website, Terminal B also has a play area. However, we didn't get to check it out. I do know that somewhere in that airport they have toddler-sized climbing equipment, and I have a feeling that it's in that Terminal B. Too bad we didn't get there in time.

At our gate, I spied a man who looked disturblingly familiar. Because, yes--it was my childhood best friend's father! Clara needed to walk off some steam down the hall (and I needed to decide if that man was REALLY my friend's father . . . yes, it was. We wound up sitting right behind him on the airplane). As Clara and I headed down the hall, I spied another friend's mother arriving at the gate. No way. Two people I knew on my flight?!?

Oh, the beauty of being from a small city.

As Clara and I were the last to get off the plane, my parents were able to greet both friends' parents before they met me, AND they saw another friend's dad get off my flight, too! Dear heavens!

While part of me feels like I really do belong in Saltillo now, it's clear that part of me will always belong here.

Why Cinco de Mayo Should Be Celebrated More in the US than in Mexico

I think I finally stumbled on the reason why Cinco de Mayo is celebrated more in the US than in Mexico! This battle, while being significant in Mexico's history, also had significant consequences for US history, too. (And likely longer-lasting consequences for US history, as the French eventually did overthrow the Mexican government, despite the defeat at Puebla on May 5th.)

The Battle of Puebla (as it's known in Mexico) was fought in 1862, between an invading French army and the Mexicans that were defending their country. At the time, Mexico was heavily in debt to France, and France decided to recoup their investment by taking over the country--in part, thanks to the US being otherwise occupied with its Civil War to bother enforcing the Monroe Doctrine.

Despite being severely outnumbered against the most powerful army in the world at the time, the Mexican army triumphed at this particular battle. Had the French been able to roll right through Mexico and take it over in mid-1862 (a full year before the Battle of Gettsyburg would turn the tide of the US Civil War to the Union Army's favor), the French would have been beautifully poised to support the Confederacy at a crucial point in their war for independence.

Had the French government been established in Mexico in 1862, the blockade that the Union army used to strangle the south would have been made completely ineffective, if Mexico's ports would then have been open to aid the Confederacy.

Furthermore, that formidable French army, the most powerful army in the world at the time, would also have been able to aid the Confederate States of America with the manpower and technological power that the South lacked. Just as the US could not have won their independence from England without the aid of the French, it is quite possible that the Confederacy's quest for independence could have been successful with the French on their side.

Had Mexico lost the Battle of Puebla, it's quite likely that the United States would be a far different (and smaller) country than the one we know today.

Whatever our individual stances on history are, there's no denying that Cinco de Mayo is a significant date, not just in Mexican history, but US history, too.



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OK, I'll be honest. I got this information from Wikipedia, which I realize is not the most accurate source of information. For this particular paragraph of information, "Consequences to the United States", they site Justo Sierra's (a notable historian) work Political Evolution of the Mexican People. If I can get my hands on it, I'll check it out.

However, if anyone else has other, more accurate sites for information on this topic, please send them my way!

Easter Vigil

Easter has always been one of my favorite holidays.

The candy won me over early on, but as I got older and was able to catch the significance of the holiday, it really captured my imagination. I always loved the symbolism of a sunrise service--particularly at my Grandma's church, where they held theirs at a nearby cemetery. And then singing with said Grandma "Christ the Lord has Risen Today" in her wonderfully, warble-y, little old lady voice. Ahhh . . .

My first Easter in Mexico, while I did my study-abroad semester my second year of college, I expected big things. After all, I had always been told that Easter is a big, stinkin', huge deal in Mexico. And as I was hanging out all of Holy Week with a church group that I had joined, I was sure we'd celebrate an Easter to remember.

Not so. This specific church group, who I affectionately nicknamed the "Crazy Church", did not celebrate holidays. No mention of Easter was made. So disappointing!

Three years later, I visited Mario for Semana Santa. We spent the week in Puerto Escondido and drove back to Puebla on Saturday. It was nearing midnight when we were nearing the city, and on either side of the highway, huge fireworks were bursting, announcing Jesus's triumph over death. Being the pyro I am, I contentedly sighed and said, "now THAT's how Easter should be celebrated!"

Drawn to fireworks, and desperately needing a walk after the horrendous, hours-long drive through the mountains of Oaxaca, I convinced Mario to come with me to check out the fireworks, which they seemed to be shooting off from the zocalo in Cholula (where he lived). At the same time, one of the churches on the zocalo was just beginning their Easter Vigil.

I had never been to an Easter Vigil, but as they were lighting a bonfire in the courtyard, I was intrigued and had to watch. The symbolism of lighting the fire in the dark of the night spoke to me. As our parish priest said this weekend, "this is where everything begins anew." Oooo-it gives me chills! I do like a new beginning.

However, Mario and I were dead on our feet at that point, so when the candle-carriers left the courtyard and filed into the church, we beat it back home.

The following year, I was living in Puebla and my parents picked that Saturday before Easter to fly down and visit me--their first time in Mexico. I remembered being drawn to the Easter Vigil the year before, and convinced Mario and my parents that we should check it out.

Oh, would that Mario had warned us what we were getting into!

After the awe-inspiring opening bonfire, we filed into the church for what turned out to be hours and hours of readings. From what I could follow, we were reading our way through the entire Bible. And this was my parents' first day in Mexico, and they don't speak any Spanish! Yikes! I can't say I've ever spent a more uncomfortable evening. Every moment, I felt that we should go, but then SOMETHING was bound to happen, right? Surely this would end sometime, no?

FINALLY, we arrived at the New Testament readings, the lights flipped on, bells rang out and it was another stirring moment.

Then they read for a few more hours. My poor parents. When it finally ended, we left more than a little bit shell-shocked.

It took me a few years to brave another Eater Vigil. But my presence was requested at one, three years after my parents' first night in Mexico, when adults are traditionally confirmed. So I went. And got confirmed. And since it was held in my church in Indiana, in English, I got a lot more out of it. And found it was really beautiful after all.

Now that my Spanish is much improved, and I have a clue what I'm getting myself into (and I don't have to translate for my parents . . . I'm a terrible, terrible translator), I've found that those Eater Vigils really are a highlight of my Spring. Again, there's nothing quite so refreshing as celebrating new beginnings.



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PS: for any offended by the nickname "Crazy Church", I do apologize. Those friends that I made at the "Crazy Church" were lifesavers during that semester abroad, and I remember and respect all of them fondly. They were hands-down wonderful people. But they were the kind of church that spoke in tongues, fell down in trances, and were otherwise moved. I grew to respect that tradition more than I ever thought I would, but I'd be kidding myself if I didn't admit that it still weirds me out. Hence, "Crazy Church". But they were a wonderful, wonderful group of people.

That Other Orange Fruit

I'm not a big fan of papaya. It's right up there with cantaloupe, where only 1 in about 15 has decent flavor. Yes, that flavor is excellent, but it's not worth going through the other 14 flavorless ones. And, unlike cantaloupe, which is (usually) simply flavorless, non-sweet papayas taste like nail polish remover. Ugh. So I generally only eat papaya at the in-laws'.

However, Patty is now buying half a papaya every other day. Even though Clara thinks it's the best thing ever, I only feel compelled to eat my share because all that papaya will go bad if I don't. And, let's face it, I don't eat enough fruits and vegetables. So when someone buys me fruit and also cuts it up for me, I can't really say no.

The other day Patty bought a really, really ripe one. It was still good to eat, but wouldn't be for long. The texture was fast passing an acceptable level of smushiness for me (smushy fruit . . . gack!). As we had a good quarter of the papaya left for the following day, I was left with the dilemma of what to do with it so it would survive until the next day.

Solution? Freeze it!

Smushy factor? Gone!

Flavor? Not significantly diminished by the freezer, and as it was a decent papaya, that was OK.

Bonus? Unlike most foods eaten frozen, it has none of that icy consistency. Rather, it's a bit creamy, like ice cream. And right about now, I need anything that can distract me from my ice cream cravings. A 100% healthy option? Awesome.

Thanks to the magic of the freezer, papaya has gone from being one of my least favorite fruits to one of my favorites. The fact that is comes in such large quantities is also no longer daunting, either.

Way to go, papaya. Maybe one of these days, I'll even voluntarily buy one.

Who Am I Talking To?

Has this ever happened to you?

[telephone rings]

Me: Bueno? (That's how we answer the telephone in Mexico.)

Unfamiliar voice on other end: Si . . . con quien estoy hablando? (Who am I talking to?)

Me: [confused silence. After all, isn't that MY line?]


Wait a minute. You're calling MY house. Yet you're asking ME who I am?

I can't tell you how many times this has happened. Why would anyone pick up the phone without knowing who they're calling? Drives me crazy.

Or, my other favorite, when people call and then ask to know what phone number they're calling. Really? You just dialed it. What is your problem?

Patty told me that the other day someone like this called her at the store where she works. She answered very professionally, "Good afternoon, _________ store in Saltillo. How can I help you?" The caller then responded, "where am I calling?" She didn't tell me what she told the man, but I know she was thinking to herself, "Dude--I just told you. How thick can you be?"

These callers don't seem to be your average creep-o. Well, they are a bit creepy, but men, women, and children of all ages do this. WHY?

As mentioned above, this used to just baffle me into silence. Initially I was so taken aback that I would actually tell them who I was. Having been since warned that this could be a scam or a way of stalking my house to find out when to rob it, I've wised up and now refuse to give any personal information over the phone. (Good job, Jill . . . took you 30 years to figure that one out! Yikes.)

Now, the confused and innocent-sounding callers get a nice, "I'm sorry, but I can't give personal information over the phone." However, most, those who don't sound like confused versions of my grandma, get lashed back with, "If you don't know who I am, you shouldn't be calling my phone" in various stages of rudeness. And then I hang up.

Because really, who does that?

Residency vs. Citizenship

Friends I've reconnected with after years of no communication (thanks, facebook!) often ask, once they discover my status as a Mexican resident, whether I'll be pursuing Mexican citizenship.

To which I quickly say, "No way, Jose!"

The perception seems to be that anyone who would immigrate to another country must certainly be immigrating with the end goal of citizenship. After all, don't all immigrants to the US want to be US citizens?

Many do, but far from all.

My husband, for instance. If we were ever to move to the US, which IS acutally part of our grand plan, he has no desire to become a US citizen. He likes the US, would assimilate beautifully to US culture (even here, sometimes I think he makes a better gringo than Mexican), and would no doubt make many positive contributions to US society. But a permanent resident visa is good enough for him.

And, being almost halfway to my permanent resident status in Mexico, that's good enough for me, too. I love living in Mexico. Despite its flaws, I think it's a great place. And while I'm here, I do my best to provide positive contributions to this society. But the US is my country. And it always will be. I have no desire to change that.

However, a number of friends of mine are considering, and some actively pursuing, dual citizenship. I hope this works out well for them. These are people that I like and respect and admire. I'm sure that they've put as much thought (or more) into pursuing dual Mexican/US citizenship as I have with my reasons for being content with residency.

But the idea scares the crap out of me.

I've had it drilled into my head (I'm guessing from George McKinney, my HS government teacher, but it's possible I picked this up elsewhere) that dual citizens are born, not made. My kids are dual citizens. I know a number of adults who are, thanks to having parents from two different countries, or from being born in a country while having parents who are citizens of another. That all makes sense. And I say, "Cheers to you!"

However, an impressive number of adult friends of mine are confident it can work out. A good friend of mine, who is hoping to become a dual citizen, explained that the government, "doesn't like it, but they'll do it [honor dual citizens]." For her sake, I hope that's true. I just can't get over page 7 of my US passport that states, "under certain circumstances, you may lose your US citizenship by performing, voluntarily . . . any of the following acts: 1) being naturalized in a foreign state . . . ". Far too many people die each year in an attempt to reach the United States, with the end goal of becoming a US citizen. Why would I do anything to jeopardize my citizenship that is bought so dearly by so many others?

Furthermore, Clause 14 in my passport does explain this quirk of dual citizens, warning them that "dual nationality may hamper efforts to provide US consular protection to dual citizens in the foreign country of their other nationality." All understandable. When I mentioned this to my friend, she didn't miss a beat, because of course she doesn't plan on ever breaking the law.

Of course not. But what if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time? Growing up in the US, we're used to a legal system that declares all accused of being "innocent until proven guilty." However, in Mexico, those accused of crimes are guilty until proven innocent. And, if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time, that could be real difficult to do. Clearly, neither the US nor Mexico have flawless legal systems. But, after living here for awhile, I'm fairly confident that Mexico's legal system is a bit more corrupt than the US's. Call me crazy--just don't throw me in jail here over it, or I'll probably never get out.

Were that to happen, being in the wrong place at the wrong time and being accused of a crime, I do think it would be some comfort to have just a bit of the massive power that is the United States of America behind me. But if I were a dual citizen, the US wouldn't be able to do much for me. And that scares the bejeebies out of me.

To those pursuing dual citizenship, I wish you the best of luck, and from the bottom of my heart I hope it works out for all of you.

For my part, I'm content with mere residency. Here's hoping that in another 3 years I'll be finally finished with my yearly trips to the Immigration Office, handing over a hefty wad of cash in exchange for the chance to live here for another year. In 3 years, I'll have paid my dues, get my permanent resident card, and (provided that I don't spend more than 6 months abroad) be good to go.

While I think she's great, I can't say that I'll miss the World's Cutest Immigration Officer too terribly much. Or, who knows? After 3 more yearly dates with her, maybe we'll be on such terms that we'll go out and celebrate my permanent residency with a beer once she gets off of work.

Yeah.