¡Viva la Revolución!

The Uprising - Diego Rivera

Today is Revolution Day in Mexico so I have the day off. It is also the week of Thanksgiving which, of course, they don't celebrate in Mexico. They have a name for it, though, which is Día de Acción de Gracias, which means, "day of the action of giving thanks." I love that. 

I will be doing a Thanksgiving presentation for the school on Tuesday, in which I will talk about the reality of the impact the colonizers had on the Native People as well as how we observe the day in my family. Then, on Sunday, Jon and I will host an open house for the friends we've made here, which feel very much like family, serving whatever versions of the traditional foods we can cobble together. There won't be turkey, though the bird comes from this area of the world originally, because we can't find one here. Instead, we'll serve spicy rotisserie chicken from a local joint with our Thanksgiving sides. 

So far in this blog, I've talked a lot about what Jon and I do and have done here, about the people, and the mishaps, and the adventures, but I haven't talked a lot about my purpose in being here, which, is, of course, my grant. One of the principal directives of the grant is to serve as assistant to the English teachers at the Universidad Politécnica Francisco I Madero (UPFIM) with the idea of making their classes more effective. I do this by bringing entertaining and useful activities to supplement their lessons, and to serve as the model of American speech and pronunciation. Besides the classes, I give a weekly English language workshop for the students in a fun and relaxed atmosphere, and I also provide a couple of hours a week of English conversation for the teachers and administrators. 

Workers are valued here

This all sounds very official, but here's the reality:

During the first quarter of this year, while I was kind of getting my footing at the university, the teachers I was working with would sometimes, essentially, ditch me, leaving me to conduct the class in their absence. There was no malice in it; they just seemed to have better things to do. However, conducting a class on my own, unless it's a workshop, is strictly against the terms of my contract. Not wanting to appear bitchy, I didn't say anything until it happened so many times that, without naming any names, I mentioned it to my coordinator. He assured me it would not happen again, and it has not. Other than that, the teachers are sweet as can be. They run the gamut from wanna-be rappers to former Fulbrighters. Most are very dedicated; others just phone it in. My job is to never phone it in. My role is to be enthusiastic and energetic, which the students really respond to. Old as I am, I've even detected some crushes among them. Occasionally someone will shout out from the back of the classroom "I love you!" There have also been treats left on my desk by anonymous admirers. In general, the students are fun and funny, while also quite respectful, and I love working with them. 

Teacher/rapper, "Moonly Rap."

The university itself is kind of a pretty campus surrounded by cornfields and sunflowers. Some buildings are very old, some brand new. When I first started there, teachers would give me their room number, and I'd find myself wandering endlessly trying to find it. One teacher was like: it's in building D. I could only find buildings L-Q. I sent her a text message: "I can't find it." She sent me a picture of the D on the building. I was like, oh, that's helpful, and not one person that I asked seemed to know where it was. I don't remember how, but I eventually found it, on the other side of an irrigation canal and through a small forest. 

The "Mexe" Building where they're
always protesting.
Mexe is the native word for Spider

There are also buildings mixed in with UPFIM that are actually totally different universities. One is in a constant state of protest - about what, I'm not sure. The other is a series of fenced-off buildings with communist murals on the walls - I'm talkin' Marx, Lenin, Stalin, and maybe Tolstoy? It's pretty intense, but they don't mix with UPFIM, which is highly patriotic practically to the point of nationalistic. 

One thing that is very baffling to me is the bathrooms. Only one bathroom is equipped with toilet seats, and that's the one in the area across the canal and through the forest. The rest have none. You gotta perch, baby, perch. Also, there is no toilet paper in the stalls. You have to grab it from the dispenser as you come in the door and it often runs out so you better come equipped with your own tissues. Some have mirrors, some don't. Only one has hooks for your purse on the stall doors. The one in the library is the nicest and most modern, but there are still no toilet seats. 

This mural is on one of the walls of UpFim.
The message is, essentially, "hands off our bodies." 

All in all, though I enjoy the teaching aspect of this experience, it's not really the thing that makes me most excited about being here, and I never thought it would be. Teaching English as a Foreign Language is something I did for many years and I don't want to continue to make it my career. Doing so here in Mexico, though, gives me the opportunity to fulfill the other aspects of my grant, those that are, honestly, more important to me. One of those is my literature project which I'll talk more about later. The other is simply interacting with this community: giving them all I can of myself through friendship and laughter, listening and learning. This is my own personal revolution - the thing that is transforming me. ¡Que Viva!

Día de los Muertos, San Agustín Style

Catrina on Horseback

I feel like Day of the Dead is becoming more widely celebrated throughout the world, especially in the U.S., but if you want to know more about its origins and meaning, here is an excellent website. In different parts of Mexico it's celebrated more elaborately than in others. Over this past week, people kept saying to us that we should go elsewhere to observe the special celebrations: a parade of Catrinas y Catrines in Mexico City, an entire city corridor of altars in Puebla, and a huge community party in La Huasteca. They didn't understand that we didn't necessarily want the grand experience - especially not the tourist experience. We wanted to celebrate with and in this community, wildly spectacular or not. To me, it was pretty spectacular.

The Nobles

1600s Feminist Nun Sor Juana

Body Painted Torsos

It helps that at the university where I teach they do celebrations in style, and this was the case on Monday, October 31st. Jon and I got there at 10:00 that morning to see the Catrinas y Catrines contest as well as the altar (also called ofrendas) competition. Soon after we arrived, I was accosted by the tiny lady in charge who informed me I was to be one of the judges. This was news to me. I was glad I had dressed up a bit because I was plopped into a chair at the viewing table where everyone could see me. It was comfortable there in the shade, though I had brought my trusty green umbrella just in case. The festivities were about an hour late to start, but when they did, we were treated to a dance of men and women in drag, accompanied by the specter of death. My friend Arlo, one of the dancers, told me the meaning of this is that people dress in masks and opposite-gender clothing so that if death comes, he doesn't recognize them, and they dance so that they're not standing still long enough for death to catch them. After that, a choir performed, and then a troupe of modern dancers performed to the song "Recuerdame" from the movie Coco. From nowhere, the dancers suddenly revealed pictures of loved ones that had passed. That did it for me. I was a mess of tears. Next came the Catrinas y Catrines competition in which the participants dressed as skeleton figures in elaborate dress meant to satirize the upper classes. I felt bad having to judge them because each one was unique and all were stunning. These students had put such work and creativity into their costumes it became clear there are some real artists at this polytechnic school. Vote for your favorite in the comments! 

Hipster Catrines

Aztecas 

Raining cempasuchiles

The altars had been erected earlier as the students had started at dawn putting them together. Each one represented a different department such as Engineering, Finance, Animal Sciences, etc., and each honored a different historical figure. These were carefully planned, and incredibly ornate - each using thousands of flowers and petals. Jon, sitting nearby, was as much in awe of the magic and beauty as I was. 

Not sure who this altar honored

For Frida

The only problem was that all this time, the sun was rising higher and higher in the sky and the shade was receding. By the time we moved from the judges' table to the altars, about which the students read long explanations as we stood in the heat, I was wilting. I had been about two hours in the sun, shaded only by my umbrella which wasn't sufficient, and we all know how I do in the sun. Also, it had been about five hours since I had eaten, which is also a big no-no for me. I was getting dizzy. I tried to tell the tiny lady that I needed a break but such was not to be. Finally, the judging done, the awards handed out, I high-tailed it out of there, desperately searching for something, anything, I could eat. Damn, I should have packed that peanut-butter sandwich. I managed to find a lackluster snack and nosh a few bites before wedging myself on the packed Combi back to town. I won't go into the details of my meltdown once I got home, but more food and a nap pretty much restored me. 

Flower Market

Death and the dancers in drag

Altar for Francisco I Madero, who the university is named for, in the town center

The next day was Jon's birthday, and festivities in San Agustín were in full swing. The big marketplace, which is normally only there on Sunday, had been going on for three days. There were flowers and sweets and food of every description. Honestly, we couldn't get enough of it. That night we went to dinner at our favorite restaurant, the only fancy one in San Agustín, and had our own celebration. Afterward, we wandered back into the town center to find it swarming with children in costumes, trick or treating at all the different shops - yes, on November 1st! As we were headed back to the house, Jon was suddenly attacked by small children hugging him and wishing him a happy birthday. As I tried to make sense of it all, I realized they were our landlord Marco's kids accompanied by their dad. It was the perfect end to Jon's enchanted birthday.

Honoring Loved Ones

Wednesday the 2nd brought more marketplace craziness, and then, late in the afternoon, a trip by car to the graveyard with Arlo. We arrived to find a kind of impromptu city set up around the cemetery with all kinds of food and beverage stalls. This party was in full swing. We tromped around the graveyard, respectfully of course, and paid homage to Arlo's grandparents whose tombs were piled high with cempasuchil, the huge, orange marigolds that are the centerpiece of this holiday. As we made our way out of the cemetery, we ran into friends of Arlo's. They were drinking beer in huge cups and seemed pleasantly tipsy. We chatted up a storm, vibing on their vibe. My Spanish had never felt so fluid and free. It took us a while to get back to the car because people who knew Arlo (everyone knows Arlo) kept stopping him and, of course, we had to chat with them all. We finished the night off with taquitos in the town center, and went home full of joy and wonder. These three days of celebration in San Agustín were not what tourists coming to Mexico flock to see, but they were beautiful and personal - the kind of experience we will treasure forever. 

Our own little decoration

Jon with local dog

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 San Agustín 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 San Agustín, 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 San Agustín 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 San Agustín. 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

Escape from Mixquiahuala

Dancers at Sept. 16th Celebration

Last I left you, dear reader, we were headed to an Air B and B in Mixquiahuala about a 20 minute bus ride from San Agustín, depending on traffic. In Tepa, there is barely anything you could call traffic. But once you leave there, traveling for a while along a highway lined with beautiful fields and a view of the nearby mountains, you hit Progreso. Progreso is where we looked at the mini mausoleum apartment. It's not a pretty town and it's always jammed with cars. Then you enter Mixquiahuala, which is even worse. Our Air B and B, as it turns out, overlooked the main drag of Mixquiahuala - loud and congested at all hours of the day and night in a city of merely 30,000 people. The B and B was nice at first glance, then the odor hit us. Like...sewer odor...emitting from the bathroom. Overall, the place was kind of shabby if you want to know the truth. At night, barking dogs added to the general din. At least it had decent wifi, and a washing machine. Sigh. We did not relish spending 3 weeks there. Fortunately, the night before, after dinner at the home of the parents of Rico my school coordinator, at which we had the traditional and delicious dish of this time of year in Mexico, chiles en nogada, we went to see a house that this guy named Marco had for rent.

Chiles en Nogada

Stairway in Our "New" Home

Let me back up. It was Thursday, Sept. 8th. I had gone to the bank to open an account which took two hours. Don't ask me why. I left Jon at our favorite little cafe in Tepa where you can get a decent coffee and a dang good burger. When I came back to get him, I found him yukking it up with two guys who had joined him at his table, making themselves understood with a mixture of English and Spanish. One was Marco, the owner of the cafe, the other his partner in the mining business. Marco told us, once he found out we were looking for a place, that he had a house that had been sitting vacant for 3 years, and would we like to see it. Well duh. So we went to take a look the next day after the dinner with Rico's parents. It's a cool little place, though it was full of junk and needed a good cleaning. We could see it had potential for sure. Also, it has one and a half bathrooms! To have an extra bathroom in this part of Mexico is a miracle in itself. The next morning we went to look at two apartments that didn't even compare to the house. They also needed to be cleaned out, and would need a lot of work from us - not worth it: only one bathroom. Now, let me just explain that when I say the house has two bathrooms, these are two bathrooms without doors. There are openings for doors, but no doorframes. I guess they always used curtains. Also, FYI, though it has three bedrooms on the second floor, they have no doors either. Apparently, Marco lived here with his family until he and his wife split up. They must have been a cozy family until then. Anyway, he moved out because it had too many memories for him (he has at least retained the custody of his children). But wait, the story gets sadder. He then had a relationship with the Peace Corps worker who was here for two years doing the job I have, teaching English at the nearby university. When she left, she had every intention of coming back. Then the Pandemic hit. She had left all her stuff behind which he ended up storing in the house. Needless to say, she never did come back. Poor Marco! (No, really.) Anyway, the house boasts a brand new and very fancy fridge, a very nice new stove, a beautiful, new sectional sofa, a dining set, and the new mattress that Ms. Peace Corps left behind. We decided we could work with that. 

Upstairs Bank of Windows (the green part is a screen)

In the ensuing week while we moldered away in Mixquiahuala, taking the bus to the university or riding the "Combi," a local armada of white vans that provide you with a hot, windy ride if you don't have the patience to wait for the bus, Marco cleaned out and cleaned up the house. Then yesterday, after waiting all day, enduring the odor of the B and B, Marco came to get us in his SUV and transported us and our many suitcases to our new house. Boy, it still needs a lot of work, but we've dealt with worse. 

A few other highlights to mention before I go: Mexican Independence Day on Sept. 16th and a wild party at my school complete with posole and roasted goat tacos - the meat straight from the pot where the goat's head still resided; market day in San Agustín on Sunday when the whole town comes alive with vendors of every culinary delight you can think of, plus clothes, shoes, hardware, dishware, etc; being in the classroom at last with some terrific students and teachers; and getting to zoom with some brilliant Mexican women who are interested in helping me get my literary project off the ground.

Phenomenal Posole

A Blessing in Mixquiahula

Finally, to be fair to Mixquiahuala, the people there are as lovely and kind as can be. We just couldn't wait to get out. 

Under the Hidalgo Moon

Where to even begin? Seven hours of travel by plane, which meant, for Lupita the cat, twelve hours in her carrier, from Portland to Mexico City. That included the two hours we spent in customs in Mexico, getting the cat registered with the proper authorities (thank god I had her vaccination papers – I was told we wouldn’t need them – we did!), then more inspections and more delays. Finally, a porter hauled our tons of luggage around the airport to find an ATM to get cash, and then on to a taxi/van to get us to the hotel. I couldn’t imagine how traumatized Lupita was going to be by this time though she hadn’t uttered a peep, but once we let her out in the hotel room, she sprawled out on the floor and acted like she hadn’t a care in the world. Such a trooper! 

Main Church in San Agustín

Two and a half days of non-stop orientation meetings and events followed, during which I was jet-lagged and exhausted, but they were (mostly) interesting and useful. The best part was meeting my fellow Fulbrighters: all lovely and brilliant and fascinating. Many of us became bonded during those few days, and, though now we’ve dispersed to our various placements around Mexico, we are non-stop in touch through our WhatsApp group. 

It was a joy when, on the third day, we finally got to meet our “tutors” the people who were to escort us to our location and help get us settled. Mine is a young teacher with an infectious smile and laugh, named Lina, who intrepidly drove us in a van through Mexico City and onto the highways of the state of Hidalgo. Accompanying her was a fellow teacher named Alberto – another one with a ready laugh and overall great sense of humor. 

They left us at the university, in a casita that’s temporary housing for visitors. It’s pretty darn basic. Lina and Alberto had stopped at a convenience store on the outskirts of San Agustín, the closest town to the university, so we could get some food for a day or two. The only problem was, once we got to the house, we discovered that there were no cooking or eating implements of any kind. There was a nice fridge and a microwave, but the stove didn’t work. I tried calling or WhatsApping Rico, the teacher coordinator, who is kind of in charge of me – moreso than Lina, but we had zero service of any kind. We went out to walk around the campus to see if we could get some wifi but everything was closed so no luck. Jon had brought a mobile hotspot with him, but it had to charge. I flagged down a lady walking by, who turned out to be our savior. She found some security guards who, about 45 mins later, showed up at our casita with a frying pan, plates, cups, silverware, etc. Still though, no-one could get the stove working. Three days later, we were still without the gas tank needed to make it work. 

The Countryside of Hidalgo

I had to take a cold shower the next morning because the hot water hadn’t been turned on. Jon and I kind of languished around that day, eating things like microwaved scrambled eggs for breakfast and tuna for lunch, mixed with mayo, on pre-cooked, packaged tortillas. The cleaning crew came in during the morning, spiffed things up, and turned on the hot water. Later in the day, Rico took us to look at an apartment in a town about 15 minutes away by car. I had had high hopes about it as it had one and a HALF baths, two bedrooms, and looked kind of pretty in the photos on Facebook Marketplace. Oh geez. It was like a tiny tiled mausoleum. The worst was that it was down a dirt road next to a defunct construction site surrounded by an electric fence. To say it was dreary was an understatement. Needless to say, we passed. We went back into San Agustín, got some more groceries, and then had dinner with Rico (who is a doll) at the only upscale-ish restaurant in town…but truly, a place that would satisfy any Brooklyn hipster with its ambience and food. The following day we bought hand-made tortillas from one of the many tortillerías, and made our own tacos at home with bacon, (in the micro) cheese and refried beans from a foil pouch. Heaven! 

Our Favorite Tortillería

Overall, we love San Agustín. It's not charming like a Mexican tourist town is charming; it's charming in the way of a little town where the residents are earnest; the shops full of useful things, though you may need to go to several of them to get everything; and in the way of a true Mexican community: there for its citizens, welcoming of foreigners, striving to better itself all the time. There are beautiful stone and adobe walls, carved wooden signs over shop doors, broken sidewalks, stray dogs that just chill all day, carnivals and festivals, and a bustling market day on Sunday. 

Market Day

Friday morning I was invited to join a teacher’s meeting, in which we reviewed four different English books presented by representatives from the publishers. It was interesting, because I’m very familiar with those kinds of materials, but I didn’t pipe up with my opinion until afterwards, when a teacher asked me specifically. I was glad to be able to offer an informed judgement. While that was going on, Jon wandered over to a nearby neighborhood to find announcements for apartment listings. He found a guy to show him what Jon described as “hovels” – literally tiny rooms with filthy mattresses flung into them. Later, we were told there was an entire house we could look at, right next to the hovels. With some measured excitement, we went to look at it. I think it used to be a funeral parlor. It was huge, that’s for sure, but just as filthy as the hovels. In fact, it was just a big hovel. With pride, the landlord pointed to the upstairs, where the bedrooms were, and a revolting mattress, which he referred to as a usable bed. Most astonishing was the circular landing from whence you could access the bedrooms. It looked to be about 3 feet wide—and no railing. No railing. Meaning one misstep, one groggy trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and you would plunge to the floor below and to your certain demise. I am not exaggerating. We fled with hardly a "No, gracias." 

(As I write this, five days later, they're here to fix the stove!)

 

Since then, we’ve just been trying to nail down other details like opening a bank account, getting a Mexican phone number and get started with immigration procedures – all of which are required. And yet, some of this has happened while getting caught in a crazy thunderstorm, ending up without cash on a Sunday when all three ATMS in Tepa were out of cash, and meeting more and more lovely people: from the lady who did our laundry to the guy who sold us a mineral water at a nearby bodega. We’re making friends everywhere and feeling so welcome! That said, I do stand out wherever I go. Jon fits in pretty well, but people look at me like a giraffe suddenly wandered into town. I mean heads swivel. It doesn't help that I am often holding a green umbrella over my head, because, though the year-round temps are cool, and the air dry, the altitude is high and when the sun comes out it can burn. It can also suddenly rain at any moment. The umbrella has been my best investment so far. 

 

Tomorrow we go to look at a couple of apartments, so wish us luck. We at least have a B and B we can stay at in the nearby town of Mixquiahuala (try pronouncing that!) for the next three weeks to give us a little more time. 

 

Abrazos (hugs) from México!

 

Moon Over Hidalgo

Hasta La Primavera

It's time to start saying good-bye, or rather, see you in the (late) spring. "You" in this scenario, is mostly Portland and all the people I love here. These people include my family, first and foremost: niece and nephew, cousins and aunt; and also some dear friends. The family will, mostly, I expect, be here when I get back. The friends include a couple of people I met in my graduate program whom I've become really close with. One is going on to law school this year - here in Portland at least - but another is going into the Peace Corps for two years. With all that change, and me gone so long, I hope will we be able to maintain the friendships that we've built during and since our time in school. There are also a few dear friends in my neighborhood, including my actual neighbors, that I will miss hanging out with when we have occasion to do so, but who will most likely be here when we get back. 

Finally, there's my family outside of Oregon, some even outside of the country, that I don't see very often anyway, but at least a couple of times a year. Will I get to see them during the nine months that I'm gone? Will they be able to visit me in Mexico? Maybe. But we will be in a fairly remote place and it may not be very accessible. Some of my friends in other states have said they'd make a point to come visit but that was before I knew where I was being sent (Tepatepec, Hidalgo - in case you didn't read earlier posts).

Not to be melodramatic, but I feel a little like Emily from the play Our Town as she says good-bye to life: "...Good-bye to clocks ticking. And Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths..." In my case, it's: "Good-bye to our pretty house, to the green, green trees that surround us, to my favorite tea kettle, to my bookcases, to the lovely roses the guy around the corner grows, to Portland's beautiful bridges, to...I guess...a world of abundance and rain and privilege." And yet, that's why I'm going, right? To experience a completely different world and culture: to learn, to listen, to do what I can to benefit the people I come in contact with - to leave my world of privilege for a time and discover the lessons that are out there for me.  

I will keep updating this blog so you can follow along on our journey, but, to my close friends and family, good-bye until spring. Please wish me and Jon and the cat good luck. We wish the same to anyone reading. 

Photo: A beautiful arrangement one of my dear friends in Portland set out for me when I went to visit. 

Destination Confirmed

Finally, after more than three months of waiting to hear where we'll be going in Mexico, Comexus, the Mexican committee connected with the Fulbright, assigned me my teaching post. I will be teaching English to young adults at the Universidad Politécnica Francisco I. Madero in the state of Hidalgo. This is a community college just outside of the very small town of San Agustín, population approximately 11,000. In the coming days I will hear from my contact at the school who will help me arrange housing, but I'm thinking that Jon and I will look for a place in the nearby town of Actopan, which is larger, only about twenty minutes from the school (hopefully, there's a bus), and looks like it has more possibility for rentals (the Fulbright provides a monthly amount to cover housing and living expenses, but it's up to us to secure the accommodations). 

I'm simultaneously excited and daunted by this assignment. Part of me imagined being placed in some charming little town full of colorful buildings and a bustling town square. Part of me imagined being in a rural village composed of a series of shacks with no running water. San Agustín seems to be somewhere in between. Actopan looks like it will be closer to the charm and bustle scenario. Regardless, it turns out that part of me is glad I'll be in a place that's neither a touristy small town nor a busy large city. 

I'm sure it will be a huge adjustment for both me and Jon (and the cat). Yes, we are used to certain creature comforts. I hope that we can learn to live without the things we're used to and enjoy the adventure of new surroundings, new foods, new acquaintances, etc. More than anything, I expect to be extremely fulfilled by the teaching experience, and by the challenge of making my research project work in such a remote area (connecting with emerging female writers and supporting them in their literary process). I think we're ready for anything the experience throws at us. I hope I'm right!