Civil Baptism?

Roughly 10 years ago, this commercial was pretty popular.  In a nutshell, it makes fun of the Mexican habit of putting lime on everything.


               


Toward the end of the commercial, where they´re squeezing lime on everything, even things that aren´t food, I thought to myself, "hmmm . . . so when Mexican babies have their birth certificates filed, do they get a little lime squeezed on their heads, as a kind of civil baptism?"

Can´t you just see it?  Mom and Dad and baby, all gathered in the Registro Civil, ink from fingerprinting still wet on their fingerprints, and as the official is about to hand the birth certificate over to the proud parents, the government offical takes a half of lime, squeezes a few drops onto the infant´s head, saying, "I now pronounce you officially Mexican!"

I love it.

As we just registered baby boy, I was really tempted to do just that.

But the comparison between filing a birth certificate and Catholic baptism is even more striking recently--because it is now necessary to bring witnesses to sign the birth certificate.

When we registered our oldest daughter, the people who worked at the Registro Civil served as the witnesses on her birth certificate, and (I´m guessing) on the majority of other kids´ certificates, too.  Or, if they Registry employees weren´t able to be witnesses, the Registry is right in front of a bus stop, so we could have just offered to pay someone their bus fare if they´d be willing to come in and sign their name on our kid´s birth certificate.

No longer.  We are now required to bring our own witnesses--no more picking random strangers off the street.

Thank goodness it worked out for us the way it did!  After all, we moved to Saltillo just two months before Clara was born--we simply didn´t have two people we knew who could serve as witnesses.  This time around, though, it was a whole other story.  First of all, Mario´s cousin lives with us.  Witness #1--check!  And Mario´s mom is visiting, to help take care of the baby.  Witness #2--check!

However, the day that Mario took off of work to file the baby´s birth certificate, both of our older kids were sick.  Since we couldn´t leave them at home alone, I was frantically on the phone, calling neighbors to see if they´d be willing to pay the Civil Registry a visit with us, taking Mario´s mom´s place as a witness.

Now that we´ve lived here for seven years, I had a number of people to call.  And at the last minute, one of my lovely neighbor friends was able to join us in a pinch.

As I told her and Paty (Mario´s cousin) as we were heading home with the birth certificate in our hands, "you guys are like Baby´s civil godmothers!"

And it´s true.  These women are, and will be, two of the more influential people in his life who will teach him, through example, how to be Mexican.  After all, as much as I enjoy and respect this country, I´m not Mexican and am therefore ill-equipped to teach him how to be Mexican.  I do my best, but--let´s face it--he needs a Paty and a Myra in his life.

His Mexican madrinas.  

Making Christmas

 " . . . In every winter of the world, Arizona school children fold and snip paper snowflakes to tape around the blackboard.  In October, they cut orange paper leaves, and tulips in spring, just as colonial American and Australian schoolchildren once memorized poems about British skylarks while the blue jays or cockatoos (according to continent) squawked outside, utterly ignored.  The dominant culture has a way of becoming more real than the stuff at hand."

                                        -Barbara Kingsolver, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (pg. 296)


      Ms. Kingsolver said it better than I did.  But my question, given my perspective in Mexico, is how the vision of a snowy Christmas got to  be the "dominant culture".  There are very few places in this country that experience real snow.  So why do we see flocked trees, refrigerated ice skating rinks, and snowmen in every park and plaza?  Yes, I agree that the idea of a snowy Christmas is a charming one.  But why are we getting bombarded by these images when they have nothing to do with an authentic, Mexican, Christmas experience?

       Call me crazy, but I´m willing to bet that the Christmas decorations in this country 100 years ago did not celebrate snow.

      I don´t either.

      Now, I´m not one of those bah-humbugs who hates the wetness, coldness, and messiness of snow.  Au contraire, I love it!  When I lived in Indiana in the winter and my coworkers would whine and moan at seeing the snow fall, someone would routinely add, "at least Jill will be happy."  And I was.

     But I believe in being present in my present surroundings.  So Christmas in Saltillo isn´t snowy?  What then, are the things that speak "Christmas" to me here?

• Pointsettias--native to Mexico, the poinsettia is called nochebuena in Spanish.  That literally means that it´s the Christmas Eve plant, as we all know it blooms this time of year.  And if you haven´t been to Mexico before, let me warn you that they can grow to be a good 6 or 7 feet tall!  There isn´t anything like a good nochebuena to help celebrate Christmas, so we´ve got them everywhere.  





Yes, ours is a bit pathetic by Mexican standards.
My idea is to buy a new piece every year.
So, when we´re celebrating our 50th year as a family, we´ll have
a set that will be the envy of any abuelita.  

• Nativity scenes--I´m convinced that there is an unofficial, national competition on who can make the grandest, most elaborate nativity scene.  Mexican nativity scenes not only incorporate the Holy Family, Wise Men, shepherds, and an angel.  No, no--they often include herds of cattle, Satan, washerwomen, nopales, goat roasting on a spit, fish swimming merrily in rivers . . . a tiny town of clay figurines descend on most Mexican homes for two months out of the year, causing significant rearranging of furniture.  I never get tired of checking out others´ nativity scenes.  

• Rosemary--earlier in the month, I wanted to make a wreath for the front door.  But, as we don´t have many pines here, I wanted it made out of something I could easily get.  I have a large rosemary bush in my patio.  A traditional, Mexican Christmas dish is romeritos, which is rosemary covered in a mole sauce.  Thanks to this, I´ve noticed in the last few years that just smelling rosemary reminds me of Christmas.  Furthermore, in a Mexican Christmas carol, Los Peces en el Rio, one of the verses speaks of Mary washing out clothes in a river and hanging them to dry on a rosemary bush.  Furthermore, having cut a branch off a few weeks before this contemplation, the cut branch stayed green for a few weeks.  

         Alas, right before I harvested the rosemary for the wreath, we had a cold spell and the bag I                covered the rosemary with had condensation inside.  Given the freezing temperatures, it just                about killed my rosemary bush.

         *sigh*  Next year, we´ll have a rosemary wreath.

• Advent wreaths.  I had to search long and hard to find an advent wreath that did not incorporate fake pine branches and pine cones.  Granted, that wouldn´t be so bad--there are mountains full of pine forests very close to here, so the pine-theme would be somewhat authentic.  However, during our first year of marriage, we lived in Metepec, just outside of Toluca.  Metepec is famous for clay pottery, and arboles de la vida.  

          While walking around one of the pottery markets one day, I found this.  Not at all Christmas-y,           in the "let´s celebrate snow" sense.  Very Christmas-y in a traditional, Mexican sense.  Makes             for one pleased expat.                

If you also live in a region of the world not blessed with snow, what decorations appeal to you?

More Preschool Dress-Up Days

Mexico celebrated the 104th anniversary of its glorious revolution a few weeks ago.  It´s one of the more important civic holidays on the calendar, so any school in the country would be remiss not to mark the occasion, right?

Right.  However, as the Revolution was a multi-faceted struggle, one that succeeded in some respects and failed in others (and, of course, it depends on one´s point of view exactly where the Revolution succeeded or failed), it´s a complicated story to tell.  Particularly to preschoolers.

So, what should we do?  Gloss over it?  Simply have an extra-long flag ceremony on the 20th?

Nah--let´s reenact it!


Is it just me, or is it true that whenever there´s something to celebrate at the preschool, the teachers ask us to dress up our kids for the occasion.  Independence Day?  Pick a traditional dress from any region in Mexico and sport those colors!  Columbus Day--guess what?  Your little güero gets to be King Ferdinand!  United Nations Day--dress your child up in traditional dress from another country!  Revolution Day--well, let´s all be revolutionaries!

As a mom, part of me is irritated to spend so much time sewing.  (Without a sewing machine, because I did not realize that a sewing machine should be included in a list of school supplies at the beginning of the year.  Those of you with younger kids in Mexico--be warned.)  However, at the preschool stage, history and social studies are tricky concepts to teach.  Given preschoolers´ natural gravitation towards dressing up and pretending, this just might be the perfect way to have them begin to learn about these tricky concepts.

Still, how much solid information are they really pulling out of merely dressing up as a revolutionary?

I have no idea.  But time will tell.

When I was wracking my brain, trying to figure out what clothes we had on hand to turn Joey into a revolutionary, it dawned on me that we had a perfect outfit for him to dress up as Venustiano Carranza, one of the revolutionary leaders.  So I told him he was going to be Carranza.  Fortunately, he jumped on that idea, bouncing around the living room, shouting, "Carranza!  Carranza! Carranza!"
Did he have any real idea who Venustiano Carranza was?

No.

Already being the proper politician and mingling with his constituents.

However, he now can associate the guy with the big white beard (who is NOT Santa Claus) with the 20th of November.  He remembers that he dressed up as that guy.  In the future, when he hears that name mentioned, he might just be a little more prepped to pay a little more attention to find out what that guy did.

Well, it´s worth a shot.

Worst case scenario?  They´re still awfully cute.

Kermesse at the Seminary

Earlier this month, the seminary held their annual kermesse to raise money fund the wonderful education that goes on within its walls.

At a kermesse, one simply buys food tickets, and then spends the afternoon eating burritos, tamales, tacos, fruit salad, etc.  A few rides and games for the kiddos and . . . well, that´s about it!  That, and because this is the seminary, they did have mass every hour on the hour.  And I like mass at the seminary, as it reminds me of my own college experience.  Maybe it´s the modern architecture, maybe the homily is a bit more academic, maybe it´s all those sweet, we´re-going-to-change-the-world vibes that just flow through such places.  Whatever, it is, I was pretty psyched to experience another mass at the seminary.  And I was not disappointed.

But, there isn´t much to say about the day in general.

However, there are a number of pictures to share!

The marble-rolling game that Clara chose.

Given her drive to "do it right" she got about 20 tries from her 6 marbles.

Guaranteed prizes(

Joey decided to spend his $20 on a car ride.  Of course.
And he wouldn´t look at me once.

Being northern Mexico, the ranchero band was, of course, present.

Captain America, Patrick, and Pluto donated their time for celebrity lucha libre.

Lucha libre commentators

I think Pluto got the worst of it.

The kids had free reign on the ring after the celebrities we chartered off to their swanky hotels in Monterrey.

However, there are a number of pictures to share!

Final Flag Ceremony

Clara is STILL in school.

I could handle the narcos running amok.  But this 205-day school year?  I may have to leave the country.

All that aside, we are in the final stretch, as today was the last flag ceremony of the year.

Every Monday morning, every single school in Mexico has a flag ceremony.  A select of that school´s oldest and best students are chosen to be in the color guard.  A month or two ago, Clara´s teacher asked her if she wanted to be in the color guard.  I beamed with pride at my little genius.

She said no.

Typical Clara.  I finally got her to tell me why she didn´t want to do it, and she said she just didn´t want to hold the flag, because it would be too heavy.  I reminded her that only one kid got to hold the flag and that a number of other just walk around it.  She could be one of those that walked with the flag.  With the added incentive that her best friend was in the color guard this past year, she was finally convinced to join.

I think they practiced every day for the last month.  And today, the last Monday of the school year, in a beautiful ceremony full of preschool-aged pomp and circumstance, the graduating kindergarten kids handed the flag off to the incoming kindergartners.  

I eat this kind of stuff up.

The kindergartners, on their final lap around the patio.

The big hand off.

The preschoolers show off the hours they spent on precision marching.

Safely turning the flag over to the principal.

The female-dominated 2014-2015 escolta.  The poor lone wolf on the right! 

Making the Cutoff

Since Joey's birthday is at the very end of July, I've often wondered--will he make the cutoff for school?  (Or, in my head, be forced to start school a year earlier than I'd prefer?)  Given traditional school cutoff dates, it's pretty much guaranteed he'll either be the youngest or oldest kid in his class.  I've known kids on both sides of the spectrum and they've all turned out well.  I know it's not a big, hairy deal. 

But I really, really wanted him to be older, instead of younger. 

So while we were signing Clara up for school, I asked the principal, out of curiosity, where Joey falls on the cutoff date spectrum.  Her answer rocked my socks. 

Apparently TONS of people were changing their children's birth certificates in order to get them into school early (or late, as my case might be).  So the SEP did away with the cutoff date and said, "if you were born in 2009, you're in the first year of preschool this year.  Born in 2008, Kinder II."  Bam.  So simple. 

So Clara--not Joe--will be one of the oldest kids in her class.  Joe will be smack in the middle. 

Gotta say, I never expected that. 

Way to make things simple, SEP!

Took the Plunge

All year, I've suffered from a wee bit of stress and a wee bit of guilt about a decision that I put into effect aroundabouts August. 

I didn't enroll my daughter in school.  *gasp*

Nationwide, in Mexico, school starts at the tender age of 3.  Every day.  All day.  (OK, for preschool it is just 4 hours a day.)   But 4 hours a day for 5 days a week?  To me, that just seems like a lot for a three-year-old. 

So I made the executive decision and said, "nope.  She'll start school when she's four." 

Clearly, this is not a terribly radical idea.  The first year (I think the first two years) of preschool aren't obligatory.  My niece didn't go to the first year of preschool.  Nor did my comadre's kids.  And most of my friends' kids here are homeschooled.  But every now and then I'd feel a little bit ribbed that she wasn't in school yet. 

And the older she's getting, the more I'm sure she'd enjoy preschool.  She's really interested in other kids.  She loves drawing, pretending to write, stories--all things academic.  I have no worries that she'll do well in school.  But this first year just felt like pushing it. 

But it is now February, and February is the month to register children for the following school year.  So we took the plunge, pounded the pavement, and checked out the schools near us to make a decision.  I limited our school choices to those schools within walking distance.  That left us with four options:  two Catholic schools; a secular, bilingual private school; and a public preschool.

For years, when walking past this bilingual private school, I was always secretly in love with it.  I dreamed that I'd send my kids there (and perhaps would eventually work there).  The grounds are just beautiful and visible from the street.  It's a sweet, small school.  They advertise that the have a pool.  In addition to English, the students also learn French.  I was sold even before talking to anyone about the place.

However, in the bottom of my heart, I did hold some misgivings.  Those beautiful grounds reminded me a lot of the last school I taught at.  Those grounds and play equipment were also beautiful--until one was close enough to realize that most of the play equipment was broken and the kids were not allowed to use it.  The students in this school (including my preschoolers) were meant to pound out workbook page after workbook page.  They failed to pay me the entire month of May and still owe me 2000 pesos. Clearly, I do not want my children to go to such a school.

And one interview with the director--who I'm sure will tell me anything I want to hear--will not be enough to sniff out what the school is really like.

But we went and interviewed with the director.  We came during recess time for the preschoolers.  The playground equipment was usable.  The students were well supervised.  Both Clara and I were in love with the place, and the director just reinforced my good opinion of the place.  I was ready to sign her up.

Until I saw the price tag.  Monthly, it wasn't much more than I expected.  But the registration fee was 7500 pesos!  That's two months' rent!  I was about to pee my pants about that, but Mexico City Man wasn't too put off by the price.  So we could still consider it.

Catholic School #1 was nice, and about half the price of the beautiful school.  However, we didn't get to see the kids in action and the walk from our house is up one VERY steep hill.  I'd be Iron Woman after climbing that hill with a stroller twice a day.  Still worth considering.

Catholic School #2 scared me off on their website by hanging pictures of Mary over every classroom's blackboard.  Had they hung a crucifix, no problem.  I may be Catholic, but I grew up Protestant, so Mary and I have a bit of a strained relationship.  They may be fine, but I don't think I want them teaching my kids religion.  And this school was farther away.  No dice. 

The public preschool is on the way to the park where we go running, and last year when Mario was working second shift we'd be coming back from running when school was getting out.  The kids seemed happy enough.  However, neither Mario nor myself have any experience with public schools in this country.  Being educated in public schools in the United States, I want to believe they work.  But public opinion here is against me.  That being said, having worked in private preschools in this country, I know that it's not necessary for private preschool teachers to have any kind of training in teaching at any level (let alone preschool).  However, public school teachers--even preschool ones--have to be trained to be teachers.  And the preschool ones are trained specifically for early childhood education.  There's a plus for the public school!

Furthermore, friends of mine who still have their kids in private schools (as opposed to pulling them out for homeschooling) complain about the teacher turnover.  A friend's daughter in first grade has had--as of February, only halfway through the school year--four different teachers.  Yikes.  While many people may (rightly or not) complain of Mexico's teacher's union as being the scourge and shame of education in this country, I think I'm pretty well guaranteed that teachers in the public schools stick around for the entirety of the school year.  And I've seen it that when parents complain in private schools that that teacher's job may be at stake.  Let me tell you, when the administration has the tuition-paying-parents' back rather than the teacher's back, it makes for pretty inefficient teaching.  I'm quite confident that parents don't have that kind of clout in the public schools.  Ironically, as a parent, that really does make me happy. 

Now, don't get me wrong--there are some very good private schools out there.   I've worked for one of them (it wasn't my last job).  I do think that all the schools we looked at would give our kids a good education.  But this is preschool.  And my only two goals for my kids in preschool is that 1) they get some socialization  and 2) they perfect their Spanish.  Given the facts we know about our options and the pricetags attached to each school, we decided that the public option will fulfill those goals at least as well as any of the private options.  Possibly better.     

So we signed up Clara on Tuesday.  Let me tell you--forking over 300 pesos (for parents' association dues) instead of two months' worth of rent--that felt pretty good.

Saltillo's Museum to the Revolution

Walking down Calle Hidalgo the other day, I was flabbergasted to see a beautiful, new, spit-and-polished muesum dedicated to the Mexican Revolution. Surely I had been there a few weeks ago and not seen anything. Or else I don't pay attention well.

I was intrigued, but there was a steep flight of stairs and as I was pushing a stroller, knew that this museum was off limits to me. I must have been gazing longingly at the glass doors, as a young man offered to carry Clara (stroller and all) up those stairs. I took him up on the offer and there we were! I guess they were just trying to get as many people through the doors as possible.

Side note: Saltillo has a number of these free museums, and they all request a sign-in (or out) as you leave . . . like most government/grant funded institutions, their funding must be based on the number of people that enter. It seems they're trying to make a success out of this one!

Being a history museum, they had a number of detailed posters explaining the seeds of the revolution and its early stages. I would have loved to read every word, but my cute, little date had other plans. They also had various TV displays and a rather loud recording of Porfirio Diaz sending an audio message to Thomas Edison. They also sported displays of dress of the day, household items of the area, and other documents from revolutionaries of lesser importance (land deeds and such).

Yes, land deeds, as this Revolution Museum is funded by the Coahuila state government. Clearly, their aim was to present Coahuila's most famous revolutionaries (Madero and Carranza) as thoroughly as possible. Therefore the star revolutionaries in this museum were the monied and landed ones--those who aren't so revolutionary in the strict definition of a revolution. Granted, I am grateful that Madero made that bid to rid Mexico of the Porfirato.

Very little mention was made of Pancho Villa and absolutely no mention was made of Zapata. No, wait--there was a poster of him in the lobby, next to Madero's portrait. I thought it was perhaps a northern Mexico thing. After all, much of my Mexican education took place in Morelos, Zapata's home state. In Morelos, Villa is hardly ever mentioned.

I mentioned this observation to Mario when I got home. His reply?

"Well of course they didn't mention anything about Zapata. Carranza killed him."

Oh, right. I often get confused about how the various revolutionary movements came together and conflicted. To make a long story short, Carranza more or less institutionalized the Revolution and made a stable government out of what was left of Mexico after 10 years of civil war. Apparently, he felt that Zapata would further destablize the country and had him axed.

Carranza certainly had a point, but I can't help but admit that Zapata's aims towards agrarian reform and wealth redistribution (which would have been disasterous for Carranza, both personally and politically) gave hope to a significant portion of the population, both then and now. History is what it is, but I can't help but feel that a good deal of that hope died along with Zapata.

Where's That Puente?

Up until a year or two ago, Mexico flaunted this wonderful institution known as the puente. I thought it was a great system. When a holiday, like Independence Day, falls on a Thursday what happens under the puente system? Thursday AND Friday are officially days off of work for everybody. Excellent, right?

This really did work well. If a lesser holiday, like Petroleum Expropriation Day--March 18th, falls on a Wednesday, that holiday was not celebrated at all that year, so that the day we would have had off on the 18th of March gets transferred to the 13th of December, so everyone gets an extra long weekend to celebrate Guadalupe Day. And if Revolution Day falls on a Saturday, that's just too bad. The extra-long weekend for Constitution Day made up for the lack of celebrating Revolution Day. I thought it was a great system.

Apparently, the current administration was not in agreement with me. Two or three years ago, they did away with this great system of extra-long weekends in order to "observe" holidays, just like in the US. This year, Revolution Day--November 20th, does fall on a Saturday. We "observed" Revolution Day on Monday.

Wait a tic--Monday? When the 20th actually falls on a Saturday?

Right. The logic baffles me as well. If the holiday is the 20th of November, wouldn't it make more sense to observe the holiday on the 19th?

Apparently not. Let's celebrate it on the 15th.

So Happy Revolution Day, all! In advance.

Or belated . . . I'm not really sure.

Visitor Delight

Coming home last week, I didn't have too much time to adjust from being the visitor to having a visitor! How I love visitors . . . hint, hint!

My friend, Danyel, lived and volunteered with me for a year at Nuestros Pequenos Hermanos way back in 2004. She's back there working and had to visit the house for the college students in Monterrey last week. Since she was all the way up here, she decided to spend her "weekend" with us here in Saltillo.

In my heart, part of my plan for her visit was to wander around downtown and snack ourselves sick on street food. When I was living in Toluca and she had just returned to NPH, we'd meet up in Coyoacan, on the south side of Mexico City, about once a month. Coyoacan is a lovely, lovely neighborhood, and we'd meander through the neighborhoods filled with huge houses, impressive gates, polished wood doors, cascading bouganvillea. While doing all that walking we'd inevitably work up an appetite, head back to the center of Coyoacan, craving corn-on-a-stick, donuts-on-a-stick (thanks, Cafe El Jarocho), mocha frappes, gorditas de nata, nieve (sherbet) . . . on at least one occasion we both ended up sick afterwards.

But it was so worth it.

I toyed with the idea of introducing Danyel to Elote Real, a popular snack spot downtown that throws a cup of sweet corn kernels in a styrofoam cup and then douses them with mayonnaise, nacho cheese, and chili powder. Amazing. And then we could peruse nachos, in the state where they originated (they come from Piedras Negras on the Texas/Coahuila border). Unfortunately, I haven't seen any jicaleta vendors lately to give our feast a healthy image.

However, Mario bought a newspaper on Sunday and a number of restaurants ran some fairly large ads . . . including three Lebanese restaurants. Middle Eastern food in Mexico? Oh, yes. I believe that in the 1920s, Mexico welcomed large numbers of Lebanese immigrants. One of their lasting contributions to Mexico is the taco arabe in Puebla (more on that another day). And, these excellent restaurants in Saltillo which happily serve me large platterfuls of unidentifiable delicacies. All that I know is that they're all stuffed with lamb and rice. Little squashes stuffed with lamb and rice, grape leaves stuffed with lamb and rice, cabbage leaves stuffed with lamb and rice. Mmm . . . I love that lamb and rice! Eating garbage downtown just had no appeal after considering our lamb-filled options.

However, we did walk off all that rice downtown. And, as we approached the Alameda, we stopped for a frozen yogurt. For 10 pesos, we were served a generous serving of frozen yogurt, fruit on the bottom (raspberries for me), chocolate on top, then garnished with a spoonful of chocolate chips. Yes.

I need to have Danyel visit more often. We eat well together.

*******************************************************
Ayamal: Monclova #1419, Col. Republica Pte. 416-8201
Or, Jill-directions: You know the Soriana on Coss? And there's a Banamex in that same Plaza. Right. Roughly across the street from the Banamex (behind Coss, going into Republica) is Banco Inbursa. That's Calle Monclova. So the restaurant just past Inbursa, yep, that's Ayamal. And I don't think it's called that from the signs from the outside. Go figure. They also sell gorditas and other typical norteno dishes, plus Lebanese a la carte. However, I just always go for the buffet-brought-to-your-table as soon as they mention it. It's a good call.

Ode to Morelos

I really do love this state. It drives me crazy sometimes, but it feels comfortable, like an old, holey sock that I just can't bear to throw away. OK, so sometimes it's comfortable and sometimes it's not.

But whenever we came here when we lived in the state of Mexico, I knew without the help of any roadside sign when exactly we had passed into Morelos. The state of Mexico reminds me of waves of grain (behind a mountanous background). On the drive, we briefly pass through Guerrero, which is on the verge of desert. Upon crossing Morelos, the vegetation explodes. Plants run amok here, refusing to be fenced in. It´s not the neatest or most orderly scene, espeially given how many Mexicans I know are fanatical about clipping grass back to the bare ground, trimming bushes to painful works of topiary art, sweeping fallen leaves off of patches of bare dirt, and daily washing sidewalks with soap and water. Morelenses are fanatical about cutting back their plants because otherwise the plants would take over! Here cutting back plants is a matter of survival.

Being here these last two weeks, I've been dreaming up some catchy slogans for the state.

• Morelos: the recovering alcholic's worst nightmare. Micheladas (1L beer + salsa + lime juice) are sold on every roadside.
• Morelos: birthplace of the speed bump. I seriously pass a good fifty during my 40 minute commute between Jojutla and Miacatlan.
• Morelos: watch your head--falling fruit!
• Morelos: where cows have the right of way on state highways.
• Morelos: where candles melt BEFORE they have the chance to be lit!
• Morelos: Mexico City´s swimming pool. (Let´s face it, chilangos really do quadruple the population of the state every weekend . . . or maybe that´s just my perspective, as I live with a chilango.)

I'll add more as I remember more. Anybody else have any others?

Creepy Critters

Now that I live in the desert,I've been particularly disappointed that I don't find wildlife climbing the walls of my house like I used to. After all, in Toluca, one of the coldest cities in Mexico, I often found tiny lizards just hanging out with me on the roof of our apartment. In Saltillo--in the desert--I have yet to find any (although a friend of mine catches some in her backyard all the time. What´s the deal? Why aren't they in my patio? Are we too close to the center of town? We don't have any grass? Mario sprays too much DDT?)

Anyway, the other day I saw an adorable little lizard climbing the walls of my mother-in-law's house. She was less than thrilled. She HATES having animals in the house, particularly uninvited ones. The little lizard was hanging on the wall, just above the level of suegra's head. She marched right up to it, hands on her hips, and just began yelling at this lizard. "You need to get out of here! Go home! You don't belong here! Get out! If I see you again, I'll kill you! You hear that--I'll KILL you!"

After that tirade, she sat back down at the table with me, and under her breath she confided, "I wouldn't really kill it. Lizards like that are such noble creatures. But they need to be talked to firmly. That's the only way they'll go away."

Good to know.

I am also much relieved that she has no plans to kill the little guy. I do enjoy those little lizards so much.

But she was right, after all. We haven't seen the little guy since.

The Perks of Living Near the Street

The other day I was checking out expat exchange and came across advice given to someone about to move to Mexico, strongly suggesting living in a gated community "so you don't have to deal with people knocking on the door all the time--selling brooms, looking to do odd jobs, or asking for handouts."

Now, this is one of the reasons that I love NOT living in a gated community and refuse to ever do so. For example, I just bought potting soil out of the back of a truck parked in front of my house. Potting soil--delivered to my door! How cool is that?!?

And have I mentioned how much I enjoy the accordion music that wanders the street?

We're not obligated to answer the door at every knock. Sometimes I don't. But then I wonder if I didn't just turn away my fruit man. (I can't explain how much I love getting phenomenally fresh strawberries delivered right to my door. And he lets me sample them before I buy!)

So, NewtoMexico--or whatever your name is--don't listen to that advice! Live outside the gates! It's really not that scary. Rent is cheaper here. And the strawberries are so much tastier.

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.

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.

Accordion Cowboy

The soundtrack of my life here would include a lot of accordion music. About once a week, usually at lunchtime, an older gentleman ambles up the street, playing his accordion as he goes. The music adds a festive atmosphere to my street, which normally only grooves to the constant hum of truck engines.

His music makes me happy and usually brightens my day.

Except for the fact that he's out there at all.

It's no news that there are more people in this country than there are jobs, particularly well-paying jobs. Even in the US, those crossing into the senior citizen bracket often have a real tough time finding work after they've found themselves laid off. Here, it's nearly impossible. And so many seniors need jobs so badly.

Mario's biggest lament about living in this country is often echoed when we go to the grocery store. In supermarkets here, bagboys (and girls) are not paid by the store. They work voluntarily for tips. It's a job traditionally done by kids in upper elementary school or junior high, and it's really not a bad job for kids. However, in recent years, more and more "bagboys" are men and women in their seventies or eighties. After years of experience in a variety of fields, so many of Mexico's seniors find it necessary to bag groceries for tips. As Mario often comments to me, "where did we go wrong as a country?"

There's no easy answer. At least, there's no easy answer to that question that would also involve a practical solution. If there were, Mexico's (and the rest of the third world's) problems would be fixed already.

Ah, the Christmas market!

Hands down, my favorite thing to do in Mexico in December is visit the Christmas market. I can wander through the stalls selling nativity scene figurines, twinkle lights, Christmas ornaments, fireworks, Christmas trees, candles, and tamales for far, far too long. In fact, that's just what Clara and I did all Friday afternoon.

We went in search of a Maria and Jose for our nativity scene. Now, nativity scenes are a bit of a national obsession in Mexico. These market stalls sell the traditional Holy Family, shepherds, wise men, and then they add all variety of barnyard animals, fish, cactus, women making tortillas, etc. Most Mexican nativity scenes are very extensive (to put it mildly). My mother-in-law's takes up half of their garage. Hers is just average-sized.

I could see myself getting swept up in this quest for collecting the most outlandish figurines. Therefore, early on, I gave myself a limit. One new figurine every year. As this is the third Christmas for the Rodriguez-Douglas family, we are on to a grand total of three figurines--the Holy Family is complete! But imagine the menagerie I'll have when I'm eighty--it will take all month for me to set up the nativity scene!














We ended our trip with a visit to a tamale stand. Knowing that my in-laws are visiting this coming week, I am quite sure that we'll wind up with more tamales next week than we'll know what to do with. But it's been so long since I've had one, that I couldn't resist! Topped off with a mug of champurrado (a thick drink made from corn and flavored with cinnamon, rather like atole) it was a perfect December picnic!

46 Evenings

This month, I've found myself turning into a middle-aged Mexican woman. Why? We'll need to rewind a few weeks to answer that one.

Remember how I was all excited about being invited to join a Bible study with the ladies from my church. It's still fairly exciting (or a good opportunity to get to know other women). A week or two into the class, Panchita (the woman who invited me) busted out a list for the Great Rosario Host, for lack of a better name.

What is the Great Rosario Host? For 46 days before the Day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, women in neighborhoods all over Mexico get together to pray the rosary. Every night. For 46 nights. Yikes.

Why 46? Because the Virgin of Guadalupe has 46 stars on her robe. Of course.

Panchita asked me if I wouldn't want to host a night. While I still don't know quite what to make of the rosary, and the thought of praying it for nearly two months every night was a bit daunting, I added my name to the list with relish. After all, it gave me the potential to meet 46 more neighbors! Sweet!

I meant to attend quite a few of the rosaries, but what with Mario working second/third shift during November and Clara deciding that bedtime was sometime around 7, I wasn't often able to make it, as the rosary ladies met up at 7:30. Regardless, Panchita took me out last week a few times, and then I hosted it at my house on Monday night. I loved opening up my house for my neighbors and I truly did feel blessed as they prayed for any number of good things for our home and family.

But, as mentioned above, I'm conflicted about how I feel about praying the rosary. I do it because it is a great meditation tool. All those Hail Marys give the distracted part of my brain something to do while the rest of my brain can reflect on various stages of Jesus Christ's life and ministry. The times I've prayed it, it's been a positive and powerful experience. However, as one who grew up Protestant, it does pose a few sticking points for me.

1. I realize that we only pray to Mary to ask her to interceede for us. It's just like asking any friend to pray for us, and that's totally accepted in any Christian circle. I'm down with that. Were I simply sending Mary a shout out to keep a certain situation in mind as she hangs on the ear of God, that would be fine in my mind. However, it takes roughly a half hour to pray the rosary. Isn't it a better use of time to spend that time talking directly to God?
2. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus instructed his disciples, "when you are praying, do not use meaningless repetition as the Gentiles do, for they suppose that they will be heard for their many words." What do we do when we pray the rosary? Say the same thing over and over and over and over. Yes, it's a great tool for meditation, but if Jesus said not do, why do we do it?

If anyone has any good answers to my hang-ups, please comment.

When all is said and done, it has been nice to get to know a few more people in this neighborhood and I've enjoyed being included in a community again. After moving around as often as I have, it's that sense of community that I miss the most, and I thank mine for including the "new girl" in their prayers this year.

In Defense of Bullfighting

November just left us, and do you know what that means? Bullfight season! In Mexico, the bullfight season runs from November to February or March. We've taken full advantage of this season the past two weeks, as Saltillo just hosted two excellent lineups of bullfighters, among them--EL JULI! I had to go.

Now, I have been fascinated by El Juli ever since I lived in New Mexico, eight years ago, and my housemate Ryan, hung a bullfight poster from Spain advertising El Juli in our breakfast nook. El Juli is the Michael Jordan of bullfighting. Knowing his reputation, I was expecting someone older. However, seeing him live and in person this weekend, I said to Mario, "wow--he looks really young!"

To which Mario responded, "He is. He's only 24 at most."

Woah. 24 and he's been wicked famous for YEARS? Amazing. Bullfighters can start their professional careers at the ripe old age of 16, and apparently El Juli has been famous since he began.

In US culture, bullfights have the reputation of being barbaric. To the untrained eye that doesn't understand what's going on and what constitutes a good bullfight, sure, it can appear to be public animal cruelty. But it's not. (Or, at least, should not be.) In order to appreciate a bullfight, sit with someone who understands it. Fortunately for me, Mario does.

In essence, the bullfight is all about showing off the bull and what a fine specimen of animal it should be. I say should be because sometimes the bulls used don't have much power, or aren't fast, or their knees buckle under them, or they get jumpy. What sets a good bullfighter apart from a mediocre one is how well he shows off the strengths of the bull. While bulls aren't wild animals, they also aren't trained pets, so getting a bull to do what you want it to do, is a bit of work, especially considering that all bulls have different temperaments, strengths, and weaknesses. The bullfighter has all of 30 seconds to figure this out before he's expected to impress the cheering (or jeering) crowd with this animal.

For my first few bullfights, I had to steel myself every time the bull entered the ring, chanting to myself, "the bull will die, the bull will die, the bull will die." Once I accepted the fact that the end was very near for this beautiful creature before me, I could appreciate the bullfight for what it is. Let's face it: bulls are not wild animals meant to live out their natural lives in peace and dying at a ripe old age. Bulls of this type have been domesticated for thousands of years, so long that they no longer come close to resembling their wild brethren. The entire reason they exist is to feed humans. It's not a pretty fact, but true. And the vast, vast majority of bulls and cows die a grisly death in the slaughterhouse. In fact, many bulls live all or much of their lives in squalid conditions in concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs). However, the life of a bull raised for bullfighting is every animal's dream--running around on pasture, eating grass, left alone by humans for most of the time. [Note: a bullfighting bull is not supposed to have any contact with a human on two legs until they enter the bullring. All their previous contact with people is with people mounted on horses.] In the bullring, the bull's death is meant to be a quick (and therefore as painless) as possible. Isn't this much more humane than slaughterhouses and CAFOs? Let's face it, livestock do not die natural deaths.

The crowd at the bullring wants both the bullfighter and the bull to do well. In a way, it's rather like 4H showmanship. However, the bullfighter has to woo the crowd as well as the judge. Therefore, he gets his animal to turn in circles, taking care to show off the animal's best side and hide any flaws. As a potentially dangerous and unpredictable animal, the closer the bullfighter gets to the bull, or the bull's horns, without getting gored, the more excited the crowd gets. A good bullfighter knows how long to play with the bull. After too long, the bull gets tired and the crowd gets bored. However, if the bullfighter doesn't show off the bull long enough and kills it before it's worn out, the crowd sees it as a waste of a good bull and will stir itself up against the bullfighter. Therefore a good bullfighter needs to read both the bull and the crowd well.

And then, of course, he needs to kill the bull quickly at the end, which is easier said than done when only armed with a sword that needs to be stuck in the bull's neck, over the horns. Last weekend, one of the bullfighters seemed good, up until he tried to kill the bull. Nobody wants to see the bull suffer. So that bullfighter lost his audience.

This is why bullfighting is really more art than a sport. Because more often than not, either the bull or the bullfighter lack something, be it sturdy feet or strength on the part of the bull, or good timing or the ability to kill the bull on the part of the bullfighter. Most of the time, the crowd is left a bit disappointed. But every once in awhile, both the bull and the bullfighter are excellent, moving together in a dance, as if they can communicate clearly with each other. It's a magnificent sight to watch. The hope of seeing this dance is what keeps us coming back, despite all odds of being disappointed.

The last two weekends, those hopes were richly rewarded.