miércoles, 28 de mayo de 2014

Fruit Truck

Years ago, a friend of mine mentioned that a fruit truck drove regularly through their neighborhood.  I loved this idea.  A truck full of fruit that drives right up to your door?  Brilliant!  Why don´t I have one of those?

I´ve always been a been fan of my vegetable man at the market, but that´s a pretty hefty hike.  Particularly now that Clara can´t make it all the way there and back on foot, and now that she´s five, I fear that the double stroller is just not strong enough to support her weight anymore.  We use it, but every time I fear that it will be the last time.

All this fresh goodness for 50 pesos.  A little less than 5 dollars.
But, it turns out that we DO have a fruit truck that runs down my street every now and then.  The problem was (a few years ago) that the fruit truck announces its presence through a loudspeaker.  Just like the guys that come around buying scrap metal.  Both messages were equally lost on me amidst the static from the loudspeaker.

But in the winter one year, I distinctly heard the loudspeaker announcing oranges.  Oranges came rolling through the neighborhood a few times a week all winter.  (And they do every winter.)  Now that summer is upon us, melons are coming through just about every day.  If you buy Mexican-grown melons this time of year (or maybe any time of year), chances are good that it comes from my state of Coahuila, as the area around Torreon is rumored to be Mexico´s leading producer of melons.  So says the propaganda from the governor, at least!

I fly out the door when I can distinguish more exotic fruits:  mangos, strawberries, and last week they came around with plums.  Strawberry season seems to have passed us, but we get every bit as excited about plums.  So good.

But whenever we´re low on fruit, and the truck is just full of melons.  I´ll take my 20 pesos and get 4.  They´re so perfect and fresh that this time of year I can even get excited about one of my least favorite fruits.

If I ever have to move back to the US, I´ll sure miss the fruit truck.

domingo, 18 de mayo de 2014

Swan Lake on the Lake

 Last week´s newspaper mentioned that the State Ballet of Coahuila would present Swan Lake on the lake at the Alameda, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night at 7pm.

Mario and I are suckers for ballet, so we were there with bells on.  While Clara has no interest in taking dance classes, she does like to watch the ballet.  We always told Clara that she had to be 4 to go to the ballet with us, but since this one was outside, it seemed safe to bring Joey along.

No worries--the kid was enthralled.


If you´re in Saltillo and missed this Swan Lake, I´ve heard rumors that a Russian company is coming next Monday, the 26th to the Soler Theater.  While the State Ballet did a great job, those Russians are just something else.  I´m curious to see what they´ll do with it!

But, like I said, the State Ballet did a lovely job and the setting at the Alameda made it unforgettable.

Thanks, State Ballet of Coahuila!  
Mesmerized

domingo, 11 de mayo de 2014

Me Speak Spanish!

Cookie Monster has come home to roost.  Again.

Honestly, this has nothing to do with a Sesame Street obsession, on the part of me or my children.

But, six months after one child stopped talking like Cookie Monster, the next one started up.

Joey:  Me take bath no.  [I´m not going to take a bath.]
          Me hit you no.      [I didn´t hit you.]

Et cetera.  His syntax is wildly out of place.  Instead of referring to himself as a noun, he´s gramatically an object.  Always.

But he does get his point across.  At least to those of us who converse with him on a regular basis.

And this is what we all struggle with when we learn another language.  Watching my children learn both English and Spanish, and reflecting on my own experiences of learning Spanish, I´m convinced that there are stages and phases that we simply can not skip over.  We can not pick up a Learn-Whatever-Language-in-10-Easy-Steps book and walk away a fluent speaker.

Taking it all in.
Like my friend Belinda, who attends the International Church´s Bible study in English.  She needs the English practice.  She struggles with English.  Most of the time at Bible study, she spends the entire two hours just listening, trying to follow along.  Just like infants for the first two years of life.  Before kids have the physical capabilities to utter a word, they´re spending quite a bit of their energies figuring out what we´re saying.  (And don´t forget that they can hear in the womb--so don´t talk to your infants like they can´t understand you.  They just might.  And if it pisses me off when people pass me off, thinking I don´t understand Spanish, I´m willing to bet a baby feels just the same.  Respect your babies´ intelligence, peeps!  OK, end of tangent.)

And bless Belinda´s heart, she keeps coming.  And she keeps listening.  And one day, she´s going to work up the nerve and SAY something in English--because let me tell you, this woman has plenty to say!  (In Spanish, at least.)  ;)

But oh-so-frustratingly, her English is most likely going to come out sounding something like Joey´s.  He´s certainly improving with leaps and bounds and Belinda will, too.  Heck, up until this fall, Clara was still talking like Cookie Monster in Spanish.  She would literally say, ¨Me quiere una galleta.¨  [Me want a cookie.]  So when the speech teacher came to evaluate her, they were probably thinking, ¨Dear sweet heavens--why does this four-and-a-half-year-old talk like a two-year-old?¨

Up until her enrollment in school, she had limited practice at speaking Spanish, so she needed a few months of Spanish immersion for three hours a day before she could sound like a typical preschooler.  She now does.  She speech teacher is ready to release her.  However, Clara is in love with her speech teacher, so maybe I´ll teach her how to lisp so she can keep going to see her ¨Spanish¨ teacher.

This reminds me of my study-abroad semester.  In one of my classes, we were asked to write a biography of a figure from the Mexican Revolution.  It had to be about two to five pages long.  In Spanish, of course.  I was a twenty-year-old college sophomore.  Clearly, I was pretty well-versed in the process of writing, and I had gotten pretty good at it.  Two to five pages?  Please, I could do that ten minutes before class.

Fortunately, I did not put the paper off that long.  It turned out to be one of the most difficult papers I had to write in my whole college career.  Of course, in English I could analyze and synthesize, wax poetic and make all kinds of interesting points about the life and times of Francisco I. Madero.  However, in Spanish, I couldn´t reason much beyond fifth grade level. All of a sudden, it became very difficult not to plagiarize.  I couldn´t get beyond the barest facts of his life.  ¨He was born on . . . He was from . . . He did this . . . Then he did that . . . blah, blah, blah¨--for two to five pages!  Did I mention this was one of the hardest essays I ever had to write?  And it turned out to be the worst I wrote (since elementary school).  Comparatively speaking.

As an elementary education major, it was a fascinating experience to feel like I was inside a fifth grader´s brain again.  But as a twenty-year-old, it was frustrating.  Well, shoot--maybe that´s a huge part of the reason why fifth and sixth grade were so difficult for so many of us.

But the point it, I did it.  I persevered.  Just like Clara persevered with her Cookie Monster Spanish and is now talking like her peers.  I´ll take a leaf out of her book and continue to persevere with Spanish and someday--just maybe--I´ll talk like my peers, too.  (A girl can dream.)

And, for those of you who are not learning a new language, have patience with those language-learners who cross your path.  Learning a language, at any stage of life, is a long, slow process.  It´s a good deal more frustrating for those in the process of learning the language than it is for those trying to communicate with said language learner.  Have patience with us.  We´re trying.

We´ll get there someday.  

miércoles, 7 de mayo de 2014

Smack Me Up the Side of the Head

I think I´m like most ex-pats and my year (or attitude toward Mexico) tends to cycle itself through stages.  Most of the time I´m in the middle of two extremes.


  • Extreme #1)  I LOVE Mexico!  I NEVER want to live ANYWHERE else!  All is sunshine and daisies and roses and rainbow farts.  
  • Extreme #2)  Ohmygodgetmeoutofherenow.  My daydreams turn dark, envisioning packing up, getting a job in south Texas, and having Mario meet us on the weekends.  In Texas.  Of course.    

Now, as is the case with spectrums, I tend to spend most of my time somewhere between those two extremes.  Thank goodness.

But when I get antsy for the US, I tend to fixate on some tiny facet of life there that just has me fascinated.  A few years ago, it was the hair salon.  A number of my friends in the US have gorgeous hair.  They also have very excellent jobs.  Hence, they can afford to maintain their awesome hair. Somewhere along the line, I attributed having ¨made it¨ by being able to go to the hair salon every two months or so.  (Don´t ask.  I promise, I´m shaking my head at myself, too.)  So I swore to myself that whenever we moved to the US, I would have a regular date with a hairdresser.

Fortunately, not too many weeks passed before it dawned on me that there is a hair salon on just about every street here in Saltillo.  Sure, many are just in someone´s living room, and many give the air of staying in business simply to cater to the waitresses at VIPS.  (VIPS waitresses are required to have identical ugly haircuts.  Trust me, nobody willingly cuts their hair like that.)  But, by and large, I realized that there are a plethora of decent stylists in this city who charge a fraction of what their counterparts in the US charge.  And if my dream of having ¨made it¨ was to see a stylist regularly, it was time to get off my ass and do it.

I did.  My hair is looking ¨grown up¨ for the first time in my life.  In the end, that daydream of life in the US has turned into a point in favor for Mexico, as I´m now scandalized about the thought of paying more than 13 dollars for a decent cut and style.

Lately, the carrot-on-a-stick that´s been my Life in the US Daydream is the the thought of joining the YMCA.  Why the Y?  I can work out, AND they will watch my kids for me.  Or, I can pretend to work out and they´ll watch my kids for me.  I´m a big fan of places that watch my kids for me.

For a few years, my neighbor friends have mentioned taking Zumba classes nearby.  I like Zumba.  I´d love to go.  But what do I do with the kids?  Last week, Rosario gave me the out I was looking for--¨bring them along!  They can join the other kids there!¨

No way--there are other kids at Zumba?!?  Sweet!

So I went twice last week. The first day, there were two other kids.  They hung around and watched and my  kids just watched, too.  The next day, the other kids were not there, but my kids danced along.  Today--jackpot--the instructor´s daughter (roughly about age 6) latched onto my kids immediately and they all had a terrific time running around, playing hide-and-seek, giggling and squealing.

All for 15 pesos a class.  I´d pay that for the Y´s childwatch alone--not to mention their membership fees!

There´s nothing quite so refreshing at being smacked up the side of the head by the obvious.