Beautiful People

Let me catch you up on the people we’ve met here. I’m changing the names to protect their privacy, even though I’ve spoken of some of them before. 

First of all, there’s Rico, who is the coordinator I work with at my university. Rico is a person who believes very much in doing things the official way. He generally appears to be very serious, and takes his responsibilities seriously as well. He likes official events and likes to make speeches to kick them off. At the same time, he has a not-so-secret passion for hard rock music. When he doesn't have people in his office, he has his Spotify playing exclusively American rock, from Nirvana to Muse and everything in between. Rico doesn’t laugh easily, but when he does, it’s a big, booming laugh that issues from his heart. There’s nothing more satisfying than cracking him up and hearing that great guffaw. He has taken extraordinary care of me, and Jon too, whom he seems to deeply admire. 

Then there’s Marco, our landlord. He’s a young-ish guy, not quite 40—big and burly and with a heart of gold. Though he’d rather let us do the fixing up of the house, which we enjoy anyway, he’s there for anything we need, and even invited us to his birthday party, which his parents threw for him and several of his friends and family members. There, I had a long talk about politics with his dad, who leans toward the conservative. That’s okay. I learned a lot about politics in Mexico, which is something I’m very interested in, though have no intention of getting involved with it (in fact, my grant forbids it). Marco’s mother is the real gem though. A lady of about my age, she is a talented baker, and creates cakes for various restaurants around town, including, of course, the hip little café that Marco owns. For the birthday party, she made pork with mole (pronounced mo-lay), and a kind of chicken in sauce, steamed in foil. It was all exquisite—the meat falling off the bone and the sauces complex and rich with just the right amount of spiciness. Marco’s parents both insisted that from now on we think of their house as ours and that we pop in whenever we want—which we clearly won’t do without an invitation. Still, the sentiment was lovely.

"Without Gold You Live, Without Air You Die"

A recent friend I’ve made—a young man who is a teacher and administrator at the university—is Arlo. He came to one of the workshops I offer for the teachers and employees at the school to have conversation in English. On our second meeting he casually let me know he was gay by mentioning his boyfriend. I had already suspected, but was surprised he was so open about it, assuming this area of the country, being very rural, would might be hostile to LGBT+ folx. I was dead wrong. He and his boyfriend took Jon and I to a baptism party for the baby of one of his friends, a huge event at this beautiful hacienda, in which we were fed more mole, as well as barbacoa tacos. As we were chatting, I asked him how it was he and his boyfriend were so comfortable with being out. He told me that Tepatepec is a totally inclusive place, open and accepting of gay and trans people, and that even the priest of the local church is trans, and occasionally likes to dress up like the Virgin Mary! Arlo is dedicated to taking Jon and I to various places and events so we can really get to know this town intimately, and I consider him a good friend now. The only way in which he let me down is by telling me to dress really casually for the party—which we didn't know was for a baptism. I took his word for it, against my better instincts, and got there, dressed in jeans and my Prince t-shirt, to find everyone in glittering dresses and suits! If I can’t rely on my gay friend to tell me what to wear, who can I?  

Sweeping with Palm Branches

Other delightful people we’ve met include the traffic cop who stops what he’s doing, letting the traffic fly in all directions, to chat with us; the lady who owns the health food store in town who plies us with all kinds of yummy treats; the bubbly beautician who figured out how to cut my curly hair to perfection even though she had no experience with the technique and was willing to let me guide her; and the adorable young woman who sells natural beauty products, all hand made in Tepa, with her bright smile and excellent English. Beyond that, there are the ladies in the shops that call me m’hija (my daughter) even though they’re not much older than me, and guerrita (fair one); the people in the marketplace who smile at us with recognition every time we stop by their booths; the beautiful old woman who sells tamales; and my sweet students who call me Teacher Gina, and vie for my attention in class. 

I adore that every time I, or anyone, get on the Combi (the van that shuttles constantly between the university and the town) everyone unfailingly says buenos dias, or buenas tardes (good morning and good afternoon) depending on the time of day; that the man who sweeps the plaza every morning with a big palm branch always tries out his “Good Morning” on us in English; and that, just generally, everyone is so kind. If we are ever met with a suspicious glance, a quick greeting in Spanish and a smile melts away the frown. 

And let's not forget Pompón and Nacha, the two dogs that live in the patio we share with our neighbor. They're both dumb as dirt and sweet as can be, though Pompón, an Akita, has a bark and a mug that would scare the most intrepid intruder. We've become extremely fond of them.

Pompón and Nacha

Finally, as part of my writing project, so far I’m working with a writer in CDMX who is developing a short story into a play; a mushroom expert in Oaxaca who wants to create a blog and ultimately a manual on edible mushrooms in her region; and a young woman in Puebla whose mother recently died, and for whom she is creating tributes via her writing—all by zoom. I’m working on setting up an in person workshop for women here in Tepa, but so far it’s slow going. I think it will take off eventually though. 

We, and the people we meet, are spreading goodwill and understanding to each other. This is essentially my job here. The people of Tepa do it effortlessly.

 

Almost Illegal

Today makes one month since we arrived in Mexico and I can't believe how much we've done since then. Yesterday, just in the nick of time, we got our immigration sorted out, which was beyond an ordeal. Let me break it down: in order to get our residency cards, we had to make an appointment at the immigration office in the state capital of Pachuca, which is an hour and fifteen minutes from us by bus. I was told that you couldn't call to make an appointment, you just had to go. I sort of procrastinated dealing with it, then it turned out the day we'd planned to go was the only day our bed could be delivered, and, you know, priorities. But we headed off the next day, determined, though I had to take time off from teaching to do it. 

Nice and early we caught the bus in Tepatepec. The ride is not uninteresting. You go through a series of small towns until you reach Actopan, one of the largest cities in Hidalgo. I can't call it beautiful by any means, but I'm only viewing it from the main drag. After Actopan, you hit the open road as the bus climbs in elevation toward Pachuca. The scenery is of mountains and soaring rock formation, landscapes of green, dotted with cactus. It makes me think of Arizona except that it's so much more lush. Eventually, your ears pop. You've reached a summit of over 8,000 ft. Then you descend into a valley with Pachuca spread out below. It is not a beautiful city either, though the Universidad Autónoma del Estado de Hidalgo catches your eye on the right, modern and sleek with a very good reputation. 

Our Lady of the Bus Station

We had asked the bus driver to let us off near the immigration office, so at a certain point he waved us off the bus and in some vague direction. As we walked, we realized we would never find it on foot. We were hesitant to flag a taxi, as we were told never to do so, at least in Mexico City. And yet, Uber doesn't exist in Pachuca. Desperate, we waved at a few passing cabs until one stopped. He took us right to the office, no problem, for about two bucks.

 

There, we were asked if we had an appointment, which, of course, we did not. The lady behind the window glared at our documents, told us what we'd done wrong and what we were missing, and admonished us to return the following Tuesday at 2:00. Sigh. Another missed day of teaching and another long bus ride to and from Pachuca. We left the office, flagged a cab, and had driver take us to the Central de Autobuses, where we could get a ticket and hop a bus home. The Central is modern and clean, and you can get food there.

 

On our way home, we were treated to a half an hour performance by this random clown who got on the bus and proceeded to tell bad jokes (in Spanish of course, thus sparing Jon the agony) and then played a very loud song about a son who didn't appreciate his father - kind of like "Cat's in the Cradle," Mexican version. When this torture ended, he played more sappy songs and then collected money. Nuh-uh, this idiot wasn't getting a dime from me. Though this kind of busking is reminiscent of the NY subway, at least there it's quick and usually not bad. 

 

Ok. The following Tuesday we got the bus once again and endured the hour and fifteen minute ride.  I was very nervous because we were right up against the deadline for how long we could be in Mexico without having our residency card. The same lady glared at our documents again and said we were missing copies of our visas and pointed out errors in an online document I'd filled out and printed. I was like, um, what do I do? I can't go all the way back home and do it again. She was like no, go to the internet café down the street, fill it out again online, print it, and make the copies. Now, I'm genuinely freaking out. The correct page on the site is hard to find and I had no confidence I could do it under pressure. But I did. My hands shaking, I managed to fill out the form, get everything printed and copied, and make it back to the office before the time on our appointment had run out. This time, she didn't glare. She approved everything, we signed everything, and then she handed us a piece of paper each. "This is your temporary document. Keep it on you until you return on Friday, which is when we'll take your pictures and give you your permanent card." Wait, what? Return on Friday? Another bus ride to Pachuca? I didn't even bother objecting. What could we do?

 

On the bus ride home, we were again entertained, this time by some kid who got on with a karaoke machine and proceeded to sing loudly and badly for a half an hour. Is there no God? Well, at least we are "legal" now, even though we don't have our permanent cards yet. The process is basically completed and we won't be ejected from Mexico. Jon and I reflected on how much more heinous the process is for Mexicans wishing to obtain residency in the US. I know for a fact it can take months, and that's for those with documentation. We all know what happens to those without. As an American, with a scholarship that allows me to be in the country for nine months, I'm incredibly lucky. I swear that on that next bus ride to Pachuca, I won't complain. 

 

(Well, I did complain, but we got our cards! In my picture I look like Francis McDormand on her very worst day, and Jon looks like Brian Cranston in Breaking Bad.)

 

Miguel Hidalgo, Leader of the Mexican War of Independence,
As Seen From Our Cab Window