La Migra

When most people think of "La Migra", they think of INS raids in the US, deportation, and other terrifying stuff. For me, it means something entirely different and very often pleasant.

After years of living in Mexico somewhere on the fringes of the legal side of things, last year Mario took some time off of work to "legalize me". At that point, I was completely illegal, having been 9 months pregnant when my tourist visa expired. We decided it was more important to hang out in town, near our hospital, than to take a 3 hour trip just to cross the border and get a new visa.

We were married for a year and a half before I finally waltzed into the migration office here in Saltillo. Clearly, we could have gotten the ball rolling a lot earlier. However, for the first year we were married, we were living near Toluca in the state of Mexico. At some point during that first year of marriage, we wandered into migration offices to see exactly what the process was to get me a resident visa. They wanted to send us to three different offices (including a police station). Mario has a deathly fear of the police in this country (sometimes it's a reasonable fear), so as we knew we'd be moving to Saltillo within a few months, we waited until we were here.

And I'm so glad we did.

The immigration office in Saltillo is located in a beautiful, tree-lined, residential neighborhood. The immigration office in Toluca required us to wait in line for the hours and hours it took to talk with someone at the desk. Here in Saltillo, they have a waiting room complete with chairs, a sign-in book, a security guard (to call us into the offices in an orderly fashion), a water cooler, and a TV that's always tuned to Chef Oropeza making something healthy and delicious.

Once it's my turn, I get escorted to one of two very spacious desks, which also provide various places to sit down. And the woman who explains the process and files my papers has got to be one of the most adorable women on the planet. Seeing her just makes me happy. She takes my papers, explains the next step, and volia--I'm on my way!

I may also really enjoy my trips to immigration simply because the bus stop on the way home backs up to a bakery on one side and an ice cream store on another. Or, it may be that last year, when I had to make multiple trips to file that first visa, I was so starved for adult interactions that talking to the security guard and Adorable Woman were really the highlights of my week.

This year, however, I do have real friends. I mentioned to one of those friends that I spent the morning at migration.

Her quick reply? "Ugh. I HATE that place."

Really? Are we talking about the same migration office? Surely a city as small as Saltillo can't have two.

She said they were mean and condescending. Clearly, she has not yet had the pleasure of dealing with Adorable Woman. I'll have to introduce them for her next appointment.

On the other hand, my friend doesn't mind going to the Civil Registration. I hate that place with a passion. And Adorable Woman told me that I should really go there next week to speed up delivery of my visa.

Nuts. Maybe I'll take my friend with me.

Home Remedies

My stomach got attacked with something the last couple of days, and it blew up into a serious problem last night. After I had downed the last and only Lomotil in the house (the best medicine ever for diarrhea), Paty and I scooted out to the OXXO to get some more.

But the OXXO was out of Lomotil. Time to panic!

Fortunately, Paty had two home remedies up her sleeve. First, she suggested drinking half a cup of lime juice with a teaspoon of sugar. I was willing, although I lamented what that might do to my tooth enamel. Then she suggested half a cup of Coke with the juice of half a lime. Still a dentist's nightmare, but it sounded a lot more palatable.

I tried the Coke and lime concoction twice and have had no further problems (knock on wood). It just may work.

Or, it may have been helped by that one Lomotil that I was able to get down.



Does anyone else have any other successful home remedies for this or other ailments? Knowing that this may have worked, I'm curious to know what else may be equally simple and equally successful.

Big Day

Mario's cousin, Paty just moved to Saltillo and will be living with us for a few weeks while she finds her own place. Yesterday, being her first day at work, I was the one to help her get there (as Mario has no idea where any of the buses here go . . . that and the fact that he leaves the house at 6am daily).

Paty manages the Globo bakery's newest locale in Saltillo, a cute little kiosk in the mall. On our way, we stopped at the established Globo store, picked up some supplies, and headed to the mall to scope out her new situation and meet one of her coworkers. While we waited for her sidekick, we dusted off the shelves, and stashed trays, powdered creamers, and bags anywhere they would fit. Clara got a kick out of sitting on the counters and playing with an easily accessible padlock, and then she really enjoyed the easy-open drawers once we sat her on the floor.

As two o'clock rolled around, Clara started to get antsy and seriously in need of a nap. I strapped her into her baby carrier for a brisk stroll around the mall, which calmed her down. Before she could nod off, we cruised back into Liverpool (a department store), so the shock of the air conditioning wouldn't wake her up, if she were to fall asleep outside. After perusing the rest of the mall, we checked in on Paty. Her coworker had arrived (was delayed due to a visit to social security . . . we understood), so we left her to keep cleaning and headed to the bank with a sleeping Clara.

Banking completed, we realized that it was going on 3:30 and we were getting hungry. Paty finished up with her partner at the isla (isn't that a much nicer word than "kiosk"?), and we collapsed in the food court with platefuls of sushi (and a cup of cheesy corn for Clara). Before going home, we had one last stop at the big Globo, and then, loaded up with bread (I love living with Paty), we headed home.

However, those Ramos Arizpe buses would not stop for us. Four buses flew past us at two different bus stops. At the first stop, they'd barrel past us and stop half a block away. Nice. Then we waited at that stop a half a block away, and they stopped where we had been standing. Seriously? I have NEVER been able to get on one of those buses going back into town. What does it take? I hope Paty has better luck today, or she may be forced to use a taxi. However, since we were catching the bus at the big Globo store, we finally just took a Route 5. They always stop. Thank you, Route 5.

We left the house at 11am and got back a 6:10. I haven't had such a long day since maybe October 2008. Clara slows me down a bit. Thank goodness. But she was a trooper.

Right now she's taking a 2+ hour nap, to make up for the 20 minute nap from yesterday.

Excellent.

And if anyone is heading out to Galerias Saltillo, say hi to Paty in the Globo kiosk!

Jamaica, Mon!

After living in Mexico for a number of years, I am finally braving the world of aguas frescas. Now, clearly I've drunk enough agua fresca to drown myself many times over. But this is the first place I've lived since Morelos (where they kept me supplied with the good stuff a few times a day) that's hot enough to make the hassle of making agua fresca worthwhile. So, here goes.

Week #1: Jamaica

Yes, you see that right, just like Jamaica the country. In Spanish, Jamaica the island should be a land principally populated with hibiscus flowers (as jamaica means hibiscus in English). This reminds me of how, in my head, the state of Michoacan should posses nothing but mountains of ice cream, rather like a Homer Simpson daydream. Unfortunately, this is not reality, and I digress.

Anyway, jamaica water is, what my professor called, the original Kool-Aid. Just not near as sweet, no matter how much sugar one adds. And, just like red Kool-Aid, it stains something fierce. Often, though, it satisfies more than the plain, boring, out-of-the-garrafon water.

How to make it? I'm still sorting out the correct proportions, but first it's necessary to get a big bag of dried jamaica flowers from the grocery store or fruit stand (for those lucky enough to have those nearby . . . about the only thing I miss from Metepec (besides Mario's family, of course)). Boil 2 quarts of water (or however much water fits inside your pitcher). Once boiled, turn off the heat and add about 1/3 cup of the jamaica flowers. After seeping sufficiently (I let them go most of the morning, which was doubtlessly overkill), add sugar (about a 1/4 cup), and let chill in the fridge.

Ahh . . . delightful!

And, for those who may be pregnant and bloaty, it's also a great natural diuretic. Hoo-boy! (Because a pregnant woman is really going to want to make herself pee even more than normal . . . right.)

She's So Creepy!

When we were in Indiana last week, my parents really, really wanted to be able to proclaim that Clara can finally crawl. So they did. Except, when she's not able to get her belly off the floor, isn't that still considered creeping? So yes, I have a really creepy kid.

Finally, at the age of 15 months, she can sit herself up on her own, go forward and backwards and scoot around to any direction. She can get where she wants to go. Just very slowly.

The other day I had a mountain of dishes to do, and Clara was furious that I would do something besides sit and gaze at her while she plays. While I washed, she let out bloodcurdling shrieks, causing anyone passing in front of our house to glance over and wonder what that gringa was doing with that sweet, little baby. After awhile, it dawned on her that if I would not go to her, she could go to me. As the tears and snot flowed, she painstakingly made her way from just beyond the kitchen door to my feet at the kitchen sink (a marathon of maybe 6 feet). Having put that much effort to get my attention, and having nearly filled the drying rack, I picked her up. Suddenly, all was right in the world again.

Therefore, despite the inability to "toddle", she's clearly turning into a toddler. Oh, joy. Now, I do think toddlerhood is one of the best ages ever. But I've never had to live with one before. We'll see how it goes, but overall, I am looking forward to it.










Photos are of Clara creeping yesterday, playing with her friend Katya yesterday, and checking out the frog fountain in the Alameda this morning (it was turned on for the first time since I've lived here! I was so excited--Clara was merely bemused).

Cinco de Mayo

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Just for the record, if you're reading this in the US, you're probably celebrating today more than anybody here in Mexico is. Why? Cinco de Mayo really isn't a big-deal holiday here. Most Mexicans are more likely to get Mother's Day off of work.

Also, for the record, today is NOT Mexico's independence day. Independence Day is September 16th.

So why do all those gringos in the US celebrate Cinco de Mayo? No idea.

However, I can tell you why most schools and businesses are closed in the state of Puebla (and possibly elsewhere, but they can consider themselves lucky . . . or maybe we're just screwed over, as Freightliner didn't even get off for LABOR DAY. Such a nice place to work). Anyway . . .

Way back in the year 1862, France was busy invading Mexico. Normally, European powers didn't do much invading of any country in the Americas, as the US would have likely sailed over to whoop some Eastern Atlantic ass. However, as the US was temporarily sidetracked with a little diversion called the Civil War, so enforcing the Monroe Doctrine was not top priority. And as Mexico owed France quite a lot of money, France figured that the only way to recoup on their investment was to invade the country. So they did.

France was pretty successful. The French army marched triumphantly through fields, jungles and mountains from the Gulf coast, pushing toward their final destination, Mexico City. Unfortunately for the French, the city of Puebla stood in their way. France put the city under seige and as rations gave way to hunger and desperation, the city was about to surrender.

All seemed lost until General Ignacio Zaragoza rode into town on his white charger, leading his army of 4000 troops. Puebla was saved!

Oh, wait--the French army had 8000 soldiers.

On top of being outnumbered 2:1, the French were also better armed (remember that the Mexican government was being invaded for not paying its debts? Yeah--not good for the Mexican army). Nonetheless, thanks to some daring maneuvering by Zaragoza and his men, the Mexicans won the battle.

Unfortunately, not the war.

Despite eventually succumbing to 5 years of French occupation, the Battle of Puebla (for which Cinco de Mayo is celebrated) is significant because the Mexican army did win the day, despite great odds against them. Furthermore, it was the first defeat that the French army had faced in nearly 50 years.

Where military might is not typically a strong point, we celebrate what we can.

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Side note: Ignacio Zaragoza, the mastermind behind the victory, hailed from Coahuila (where I currently live). At some point, the government of Coahuila officially changed the name of their state to Coahuila de Zaragoza, to show how proud they are of their hometown hero. Zaragoza's face also graces the 500 peso bill.

Now, the name Ignacio is often shortened to Nacho. Nachos, everyone's favorite cheesy, heart atack-on-a-plate, also originate from this great state of Coahuila de Zaragoza. Is this another plot to draw attention to one of the state's favorite figures?

No, just lucky coincidence. For a more complete history of nachos (the snack food), read Linda Ellerbee's Take Big Bites (one of my favorite books).

Food Storage Wars

In my house, the way Mario and I store food (particularly leftovers) is a source of contention. In fact, it's the only topic we've ever really argued about. After two years of marriage, we have clearly made some compromises. While visiting my family last week, I was able to see how, slowly and insidiously, these changes are in conflict with the way I was raised.

In Indiana last week, I made enchiladas for my family and friends and was shredding the chicken off and on one afternoon. Whenever I had to put the chicken down for a few minutes, I just placed it on the counter. It was maybe 70 degrees, at most, that day. Whenever my mom would see the cooked chicken just sitting on the counter, she, like any good Midwesterner, immediately whisked the chicken in the refrigerator.

Now, is that chicken really going to go bad in an hour or two sitting on the counter on a cool day?

After living with my husband for a few years now, my experience tells me no. But any good Midwesterner does freak out a bit on this subject. After all, a few days earlier, my friend stopped over after going out to dinner. She brought her carry-out with her. After a few minutes of noticing that it was just sitting out on the counter, she asked if she could put it in the fridge.

Uh, sure. No problem. But your leftovers aren't going to go bad in an hour or two. I promise.

Yet, I do remember my first Christmas in Saltillo, when Mario's family descended on our house for a week and took over the kitchen. At eight months pregnant, I did not mind a bit. However, I couldn't stand to go into the kitchen and stand to see leftovers just sitting out on the stove, uncovered. Then, when Mario's aunt would think to put them away, she'd just thrust the entire pot of whatever it was into the fridge, as is, without a lid. This drove me crazy.

But now, I do it myself. All the time.

And, no doubt, this drives my family crazy.