Quality or Quantity?

Yesterday was a whirlwind of an evening. I had a dentist appointment scheduled at 5:30. Due to the dentist being very, very pregnant and Christmas approaching, it was the first time that I've encountered a Mexican medical professional whose schedule was booked. I had to take the 5:30 appointment. Which meant that Mario couldn't drive me AND I had to find someone to watch Clara while I got my teeth drilled yet again.

Fortunately, my friend Sheila was only too willing to watch Clara. Unfortunately, she lives at the polar opposite side of town from me. Meaning, we had to leave the house at 3:30 in order to make it to my 5:30 appointment on time. Every once in awhile, I'm not a huge fan of public transportation. This was one of those times.

While hanging out in the dentist's chair, I noticed that dark was quickly approaching. Why does December always do this to me? Sigh. So I walked from the dentist's house to the mall in the twilight, knowing that my best chance of getting any kind of transportation out to Sheila's at that time of day would be one of those taxis that is constantly skirting the mall.

Getting in the taxi, I let him know that I needed to get to Sheila's neighborhood at the waaaay north side of town, and if he would wait for me, we'd then need to go to my house downtown. I was a bit nervous trying to make myself understood and probably spoke way too fast. The mouth full of Novocaine didn't help anything. Even on the best of days I can't pronounce the name of Sheila's neighborhood well (which is REALLY embarassing, as it's my husband's last name . . . and a common one at that . . . [really deep sigh]).

After giving very specific directions to Sheila's house instead and receiving a tutorial on how to pronounce my husband's last name (after which he may have finally realized that I wasn't kidding about having a mouth full of Novocaine), we were on our way and he switched our language of conversation to English.

Have I mentioned how much I hate that?

Now, I understand if your English is better than my Spanish. I'll happily speak English then. But 9 times out of 10 my Spanish is better, which makes an already irritating conversation just about unbearable. Yes, I'm one of those who prefers my taxi rides to be silent.

And given the extra-long nature of this ride, I'd be spending the better part of an hour with this man. Perhaps I should have waited for the next taxi. Can't they post signs on the door, saying "I'm a chatty taxi driver!" or, "I'm a silent taxi driver"? Of course not.

After picking up the kid (who did not cry at all the entire time I was gone--highlight of my week), we headed off the long ride back home with Chatty Taxi Driver. Before we even got off the highway, he told me that he had lived in northern California for six years. It seemed like he enjoyed it.

As we continued talking, though, he and I both came to the conclusion that there is something nice about living here in Mexico. As he put it, "there's quantity and there's quality. While we may not have too much here in Mexico, in a number of important ways, I feel that the quality of life is better here."

Obviously, quite a few people will disagree with him, or there wouldn't be so many Mexicans living in my country. However, I have to agree. In many ways, life certainly is easier in the US, but is the quality of life any better?

So often I feel like I'm stuck in a time warp, thrown back a few decades to a simpler time that so many reminisce about. Clearly, memories are fickle things, and all too many things about the realities of life in Mexico are anything but idyllic. However, in my experience, I have to agree with Chatty Taxi Driver. Life just isn't as notoriously busy here as in the US, and that in itself is a huge improvement in the quality of life. Yes, working hours are longer (and for less pay) but that never-ending busy-ness? In my experience, it just doesn't exist.

For this and other reasons, I am glad to live here. Despite a number of uncertainties, I do feel a deep sense of peace, which in part comes from my experience living here. Could I find that in the US? Absolutely. I think it would just require a bit more searching in order to find it.

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(This conversation excluded the reality of the violence that plagues this nation, of course. That's a whole other can of worms and fortunately isn't quite the reality here that it is in so many other cities.)

Entren, Peregrinos!

This afternoon, I attended my first, and likely only, posada for this year.

The ladies from my Monday neighborhood Bible study wanted to have a little party before Christmas, and decided that we should have a posada. It was quite possibly the smallest posada in the history of posadas, but we had a good time and hit all the bases nonetheless.

Posadas are parties traditionally held the nine nights before Christmas. A few people dress up as Mary and Joseph (or hold a maquette of Mary and Joseph) searching for room in the inn (or posada). The host family keeps all the other guests out in the cold while the posada song is sung. The guests all sing a verse, begging for room at the "inn" while the host family sings the following verse, staunchly refusing them. After about 8 verses of this banter, those inside finally "realize" who is asking for shelter and warmly invites everyone inside.

For our posada, I was able to stay inside, by virtue of bringing Clara as my guest, as did Panchita with her preschooler grandson, and Antonia, who's older and getting rather frail. Therefore, the "younger" ones, Socorro (roughly 60 years old), Chayito (edging on 50 years old) and Diana, Chayito's 19-year-old daughter braved the cold. I can't say I've sung that song since I lived at NPH, with their posadas-that-never-end, and I really enjoyed it--brought back good memories. I was starting to wonder if I'd ever sing it again.

Once those "young ones" came inside, we prayed a rosary and sang a Christmas carol when we paused for every mystery. After that, of course we ate. No posada is complete without food. Panchita made tamales (some with chorizo . . . mmm . . . ) and Rosario made ponche and bought a cake. Clara, surprisingly, ate a bit of everything. All that was missing was a pinata.

And as I hate pinatas, I was perfectly OK with that.

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For more information on posadas, read Nine Days to Christmas by Marie Hall Ets and Aurora Labastida. It won a Caldecott Medal in 1960 and is one of my favorite books . . . just gorgeous!

Destination: Real de Catorce

After living in Saltillo for the past two years, we’ve driven down that empty, mind-numbing stretch of highway between Saltillo and San Luis Potosi more times than I care to admit. The first time we drove it, I was rather intrigued by all the Joshua Trees, cactus, and snake skin sellers. But once was enough.

This last time, when our destination was simply San Luis Potosi, we had time to make a detour—at Real de Catorce. Just crossing the border into San Luis Potosi from Nuevo Leon, we had been promised by Mario’s family that a few hours at Real de Catorce were worth our time.

Real de Catorce used to be a silver mining town in colonial days. I believe the last of the mines were all but scraped clean by 1908. We were anticipating visiting a ghost town.

However, Real de Catorce is a thriving community.

What a surprise, as anyone who wishes to either enter or leave the town must pass through the Ogarrio Tunnel, delving under a mountain nearly a mile in length. That makes for quite a commute, especially as Real de Catorce is the closest thing to the middle of nowhere that I've ever been. Built in 1902, tunnel is impressive. But even more impressive, what were those doors leading off to a few meters from the entrance? I also would have been tempted to stop and look (as my in-laws did). However, the traffic is only one-way, and while they count the cars coming out as the end, if they notice that the traffic has ceased, they may just assume they miscounted, and let the oncoming traffic through. Therefore, when my in-laws stopped to admire this feat of engineering a year ago, my father-in-law had to back up halfway through the tunnel until there was a space wide enough to let the traffic pass. Lesson learned: don’t stop to gawk.

Once in town, what is there? A plethora of the usual tourist trinkets, antojos, and a more than usual number of hippies. I had never seen so many hippies so far from Cuernavaca or Tulum. Who knew that this was hippie mecca? They (the townies, not the hippies) also offer horseback rides to the ghost towns. Therefore, when we return we may get our ghost town fix, after all. And a word to the wise: for those traveling with small children, taking a stroller in this town is more hassle than it’s worth. We learned the hard way.

There were quite a few Regios (people from Monterrey) who were apparently taking a break from getting shot at for the weekend. Much like those of us from Saltillo, they have few weekend options within driving distance. Spotting Regios is fairly easy, as they seem to travel in packs. Were I part of the pack, I would probably love vacationing with them. However, as part of a small, independent family unit, the noise that usually accompanies these packs of Regios requires a bit of patience. Fortunately, they just talk loud. Other than that, they do seem to be very, very nice people overall. I do count my blessings that, at least in my experience, they don’t go blaring that awful norteño music everywhere they go.

And, I’m guessing that thanks to the flocks of regular visitors from Monterrey, we stumbled onto a beautiful Italian restaurant/hotel. But did Mario and I order Italian? Of course not! Mario had German-style rabbit. It was very good, but not near as good as my chipotle sauce-covered rabbit. For those who may venture out to Real de Catorce, this restaurant, aptly named “Real”, is on Morelos, between Lanzagorta and Constitución, a block nearer the center of town from the Plaza Hidalgo.

Futhermore, the lobby at the Real is littered with movie posters and still shots, as the movie The Mexican, with Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts, was filmed in Real de Catorce. Futhermore, Bandidas with Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz, and a number of other non-Hollywood movies were also filmed here. The hotel boasts the impressive display of pictures, as the hotel’s owner enjoys being an extra or gets bit parts (he was also a pirate in Pirates of the Caribbean III).

As this is the only other town besides Parras within 3 hours of Saltillo and not currently overrun with narcos, we’ll be visiting again. İQue vivan los Pueblos Magicos!

For those who might visit Real de Catorce, take Highway 57 (Mexico City-Laredo) until just north of Matehuala. Then, cut west on 62 (keep your eyes open—it’s not well marked). From there, follow the signs to Real de Catorce. All in all, it takes about an hour after leaving 57—not counting the time spent waiting to go through the tunnel.