A day in San Miguel

Two weeks after I arrived here, my blog is finally in San Miguel. My fan can rejoice. That’s you Zoe. Oh yea, and you Dad. Two! I can use the plural. I have aficionados, fans. How wonderful. But really, what’s kept me so busy?

Well, days here are long. They start at about 7 a.m.—a healthy, wealthy and energy-wise hour to rise. And accomplished with the help of just three alarms: my cell phone, a small battery-powered clock and the sun. Each morning I turn the first two off, climb back into bed, and the third gets me up in time to make 8 a.m. desayuno.

My nearly daily meal is a bowl of fruit—papaya, apple, bananas and sometimes mango or kiwi­—sprinkled with granola and a few hefty dollops of yogurt. It’s often washed down with pineapple, grape or peach juice, or, every now and then, fresh squeezed orange juice. Yup, I get all my daily fruit servings right there at the kitchen counter.

Once finished, I walk the three minutes down the hill to the school and begin eight hours of classes. First up: pronunciation. For nearly an hour, the lenguas of my classmates and I slur through vocales—both fuerte and débiles—twist into diptongos and flubber over guturales. Repeat with me our daily opening anthem: aeo, aiu, aeo, aua, aei, eui, oua, oai. No, I won’t make you do it all. The biggest mistake I ever made? I once drank a chamomile tea with breakfast. My tongue slept all through class. Never again.

After the oral weight-lifting, I head to three hours of general Spanish, now grouped by ability. I’m in level four, taught by Paula (pronounced Pow-la), along with three other students. (For the first two weeks, there was just one other, but we added some bodies midway through the four-week session.) Class discussions include the conditional verb form, the best way to cook tenderloin—in a pressure cooker submerged in cerveza, apparently—how to give commands, and the current state of Mexican politics—caliente, hot, according to Paula.

I have learned a number of things in my next course, Twentieth Century Hispanic Literature. First, I recognize a lot of words. Second, recognizing a word doesn’t mean you can remember what it means. Third, even when you remember what the words mean, that doesn’t mean you can understand the sentence. Fourth, even when you understand the sentence, or even the paragraph, you never understand the story. Fifth, never read poetry in Spanish.

I walk uphill to my home with head pounding and confidence high. I am, during that walk, confident I will never learn Spanish. The more I learn, the less I know, to paraphrase Socrates. And then there's the pain between my eyes. Consequently, comida, as lunch is called in Mexico, is usually a silent meal. I groan to Lourdes ‘Me duele la cabeza’, ‘I have a headache’, and tell her the name of the culprit of the day: Pablo Neruda, Rosario Castellanos, Jorge Luis Borges. She nods; she's seen nine years of dispirited lunchtime students.

Fortunately, lunch is the largest meal of the day in Mexico, so there is plenty of work to be done that precludes conversation. Typically, comida starts off with a sopa, or soup, of boiled vegetables or puffed corn kernels. The main dish varies widely. I’ve had bean and cheese tacos, American-style spaghetti, rice and a calabaza-carne de vaca (squash and beef) mix and the well-known chile relleno (stuffed and fried peppers). It’s all washed down with jugo (juice) or occasionally one of various atoles: canela, arroz, chocolate. The cinnamon, rice or chocolate drink is sweet, a bit thicker than a typical hot chocolate and, happily for my lactose-discriminating stomach, light in milk.

After lunch, I retreat to my room and collapse on my bed, felled by this soporific combination: a bellyful of food and a head full of Spanish. Yet as sleep seldom comes to me in the middle of the day, especially as my mind continues obstinately to translate every piddling English thought to Spanish, it is a short-lived collapse. I often end up reading an old sixth grade Spanish exercise book. I don’t understand that either, but it has pretty pictures.

To be continued...

Not the land of Gideon

In 1823, an American hotel received a stack of bibles to be distributed to each their rooms. Nearly two centuries later, about 450,000 bibles are distributed each year, most courtesy of the Gideon Society. The result: a bible in every room.

So when I open the drawer in my hotel room in San Miguel de Allende, a city known as ‘the heart’ of one of the most Catholic countries in the world, I am slightly taken aback. Yup, Gideon hasn’t reached San Miguel. Not that I needed a Bible, but the lack was emblematic. My comfortable and tastefully appointed room was strangely bare. Aside from two bottled waters, there was nothing in the place. Nothing in the drawers, nothing in the cabinets, nothing in the bathroom. Most distressingly for me, and for the Mexican family I was about to meet for the first time, there was no soap in the shower.

(I had arrived in San Miguel the night before. With the help of a friendly cab driver, I took a bumpy, weaving journey through the cobble-stoned streets of San Miguel to find an ATM—I was broke; then a hostel—full; then a hotel—expensive, but at 3 a.m., after almost 24 hours of travel, any price was acceptable.)

After a long, hot, soap-less shower, I head out to find my new home. I ask the clerk at the front desk for directions and she says something. For all I know, she gives me exact directions, but to me it sounds, bizarrely, like “go to the market.” I guess my Spanish isn’t getting any better. She does give me a map, with my house’s location marked. I walk down the hotel’s narrow private drive to the street, glance at the map and take a left. Two blocks later, as the heat and my overweight bag start to wear on me, I realize I turned the wrong way. Half an hour after starting, I find my street about three blocks from the hotel. According to the map, I need to turn right. Looking left, I see the market. Ah. She said “Go through the market.”

My new house sits on a steep hill overlooking the city. It is unremarkable from the outside: a dull red metal gate emblazoned with one of the city’s ubiquitous no parking signs rises to meet a small balcony decorated with a few plants and a Mexican flag. I knock and, after a moment, my mother for the next month answers the door. She is of medium height, with dark hair and a round nose in a warm face. I say what I’ve been practicing in my head all the way up the hill: ‘Buenos días’.

Though she wasn’t expecting me for about three more hours, Lourdes Montes is very sweet. Nine years of hosting students is apparent: she speaks slowly, she gestures constantly and, though she doesn’t speak English, she knows the words for the basics. We’re hundreds of miles from the U.S. border, but the Montes living room sits on cultural middle ground. Christmas teddy bears sit along the top of the overstuffed sofa and faux wreaths sit atop the red and green plaid tablecloth of the dining table. Yet over the sofa is a shrine to the Virgin Mary and on the walls hang a Diego Rivera reproduction and a surrealistic Don Quixote portrait.

Lourdes leads me up a white tiled staircase and opens the door onto an expansive balcony. It is enclosed on three sides by walls—respectively vivid green, burnt orange and brick—and above by a yellow roof along which runs exposed white beams. Plants crowd the walls, leaving room only for four doors, one of which leads to my room. A white plastic table and matching chairs sits centrally under the roof, and a second glass-and metal table and chair set sits under the sun in a smaller, exposed subsection of the balcony. I walk out to this area and look down, through power lines, to the city below. I can see the spiky pink shape of the Parroquia, the city’s most well-known church; the skinny stone tower of the Our Lady of Health church; the giant salmon dome of the city’s largest church; and the spires of half a dozen smaller churches. The door to my room is about a dozen feet away. Wow.

My room is equally spacious and nearly as colorful. From the bed spread to the curtains to the two red tablecloths, flower patterns dominate. The blinds are closed, but the room is bright with yellows: a deep ocher post stands off center in the room joined with beams at the ceiling, the walls are a mild lemon and under my feet are tiles with marbleized pattern in daffodil. By contrast, the toilet and most of the rest of my private bathroom is blue, with the themes meeting in the painted sink, where two blue fish swim in a yellow background. Parting the curtains, I see a view that nearly matches the one that took my breath away outside. The room is supplied with both a television and an enormous built-in bookcase. I ignore the first and scan the spines. I spot civil engineering textbooks, Reader’s Digest collections and Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. I also see two bibles: one English, one Spanish. No visit from Gideon needed here.

(Information about the curious history of drawer-based proselytizing drawn from www.straightdope.com)

A red light in the night

On a sunny day in September 2003, I boarded a train and spent nearly an hour watching a city I didn’t know pass by. A smile I couldn’t help sat on my face the whole time. I had just arrived in London.

I hoped to do the same in Mexico. My plan, when I was booking my ticket, was to arrive in Mexico City early in the day and ride to San Miguel while it was still light. I wouldn’t have a guide, but I wouldn’t have understood what was said if I did. And you don’t need one. Watching a foreign land roll by is a mix of the banal and the surreal. You see houses, cars, signs. Like always. Yet, the images are tweaked. Bare concrete homes sit next to snazzy billboards. Men in Nike sweatshirts walk with baskets balanced on their heads. The car passing your bus could fit in the bed of your neighbor’s pickup. The signs, despite their brevity, are tellingly different in their mix of suggestion and imperative.

Yet it was not to be. I got to Mexico City so late I nearly spent the night, and thus all but the beginning of the four hour bus ride passed in darkness. I didn’t even have a chance for unsuccessful conversation: in front and behind me my fellow riders slept. Silence on the bus was broken only by a mysterious bleeping that emitted from the front of the cab, which I solved only after some serious squinting at a red light that would illuminate in time with the noise; once in focus, the light turned to characters: “85 km/ph”. Our driver was setting off the speeding alert.

But we did make one brightly lighted, slow-paced detour. I woke from a light sleep nearly an hour from our destination to find the bus on an uneven dirt road. Looking out the window, I saw modest houses and small fields stretching alongside the road. After a moment, we passed another bus on the side of the road and slowed to a stop in front of it. A minute later, people began boarding the bus. Their bus had broken down. They filled the seats. They filled the aisles. And when the bus was packed from back wall to the front step, we took off again. And, soon enough, the bus began bleeping.

Boarding the bus

The two hours waiting for the bus passes slowly but pleasantly. I am like a child in this world; everything is new to me. I browse a few tables of books set up in the center of the large waiting area and am tempted by many, including a biography of Jim Morrison in Spanish, but my bag is too heavy to consider buying anything. I eat a cheap ‘torta’ or sandwich; and read signs: Sanitarios públicos (above the metal revolving door for the pay-to-enter public restrooms) and SuperVoy de 24hrs. (like mini 711, of which there are two no more than 30 feet from each other in the waiting area).

When ten o’clock comes, I pass through a metal detector onto the bus platform. The lady supervising asks me something in Spanish, then seeing that I don’t comprehend, takes my wrists, raises each arm out wide and, to my surprise, pats me down. I try to ask which bus is headed to San Miguel, as buses line the curb in front of me. Her response, as I’m beginning to expect, is unintelligible to me. ‘No entiendo,’ I say. I don’t understand. She says something, then seeing my still vacant face, points to the bus directly in front of me. The one with the sign saying ‘San Miguel de Allende’ in the window. Mmm. Like a child.

I hand my bag to be stowed away beneath the bus, and step aboard. Handing my ticket to the driver, he points behind me, where I see a line that I somehow bypassed. I mutter an embarrassed ‘Lo siento’— ‘I’m sorry’—and step off the bus. When it comes my turn, the woman tells me something and I start to turn around, thinking that’s what she wants. She laughs, stops me, signals me to step closer and, to my repeated and now greater surprise, begins to search me a second time. I hold out my arms again, resigned to a trip of continual confusion.

One more 'gringo loco'

After collecting my beast of a bag—by choice, mine has no wheels—I walk through the airport, scrupulously ignoring the men who shout ‘Taxi’ at me. Only take authorized taxis, I’ve been advised. At the authorized taxi stop, I buy a $15 ticket and climb aboard a sparkling new PT Cruiser—a 2008, my driver tells me in response to my feeble ‘Me gusta su carro.’

Taxi drivers are always willing to talk, I figure, so I try some basic Spanish. It goes well, helped by his own competent English, and soon I learn he spent two years studying in New York, or at least I think that’s what he says, and that he spends six months of every year there, or something like that. I continue to ask him questions in my halting Spanish, and he humors me with answers, though he speaks my native language with much more confidence than I his. While we’re talking I mention that I plan to take a bus tomorrow to San Miguel de Allende. He tells me I could still catch one tonight—it’s about 7:45 p.m.—and save money on the hotel. Will it cost more to get a ride to the bus terminal? I ask in Spanish. In English he deadpans: “Fifty dollars,” then laughs. After a moment, I join him.

After warning me to deal only with people at the counters, my friendly cab driver drops me off. The bus terminal, a large semi-circular building with glass panes facing the street and ticket stalls of various bus companies lining the wall, is buzzing with activity. But no one, as far as I can tell, pays more than cursory attention to me, the sole gringo. After reading the large destination signs of a handful of stalls, I find one that offers a ride to San Miguel de Allende. ‘Cuanto cuesta un autobús a San Miguel,” I ask, rough Spanish for: How much for a ride to San Miguel? Two-hundred and fifty pesos, he answers in Spanish and continues at too rapid a pace for me to understand. I catch only ‘mañana’. The bus won’t leave till tomorrow. Shit.

Inwardly, I curse my taxi driver. ‘He just wanted to get rid of me, so he could find another fare,’ I think. ‘He probably knew there was no bus tonight.’ ‘But he seemed sincere... maybe he was just guessing about the bus.’ ‘Either way I’m stuck, damn it.’ As my mind cycles angrily through irrational scenarios of deception, I walk to the largest of the stalls and ask if there are any buses leaving tonight for San Miguel. They point me to the end of the semi-circle, where, to my relief, I find a company that runs a bus to San Miguel. It doesn’t leave for two hours, but I’m happy. I even recognize that, for a while there, I was just another gringo loco.

Travel highlights

Celebrities in security

In line for the security check-in, I spot a tallish guy wearing a cap with a narrow brim, a too-short black t-shirt, dirty shorts and low-cut sneakers. He resembles a major sports star. I look more closely, but he is half turned away from me. His calves, however, seem a bit too robust for the average poorly dressed American male. He turns toward me. Suspicions confirmed. It is Andy Roddick.

(I always thought, implicitly, that celebrities went through some kind of special line. Guess not. Or maybe Roddick’s career has nosedived so badly that he’s flying economy these days. Or at least he’s sold his private jet.)

---

Lucky Maria

In the air, I glance from my book to the balding, bespectacled gentleman sitting a seat away. Red pen in hand, he’s scribbling in the margin of some multi-paged document. I can see it’s in Spanish, but can’t read the words or his edits. As I watch, he continues reading, makes some underlines, then scribbles some more. I turn back to my book and forget about him.

A few minutes after we’re served our drinks for the flight, I smell something strange. After a moment, I realize it’s not because the smell is unfamiliar, but because I’m on an airplane. Usually the only scents I pick up are perfume and body odor. I get a whiff again and look around. A seat away, the editor is holding a bottle wrapped in plastic foam. I look at his plastic cup, and see a clear liquid, in contrast to the Coke can sitting on his tray. He’s now putting the bottle into the bag at his feet, when I see the manila cover of the document: ‘Tésis Sra. Maria’—and the rest is cut off (tésis=thesis). Simultaneously, I recognize the smell. It’s vodka.

He pulls out the bottle at least a half a dozen more times before the plane’s final descent. He doesn’t pull out the tésis again. Lucky for Maria.

---

!Empuja el botón!

I’ve made it through the first part of customs. I warranted scarcely a nod from my examiner, though I am still trembling from having to speak Spanish for a practical purpose for virtually the first time in my life. My final test involves a seemingly cursory scan of my luggage. I have to speak Spanish again, but this time I’m ready. I even answer the inspector’s ‘Buenas tardes’ with ‘Buenos noches’—she glances at her watch, sees it is no longer afternoon, and says ‘Sí, buenos noches.’

Confidence sky-high, I pick up my bag and walk to the exit. Someone calls to me, but of what they say all I understand is ‘Senor!’ I turn, listen uncomprehendingly, until someone says in English: ‘Push the button.’ They point to a pole, where three people are standing. There is a large yellow button set in the green pole, with ‘The Button’ in large capitals above it. The Spanish equivalent of ‘random search generator’ is printed in smaller letters.

Finally understanding, I step towards the pole, reach out and push the button. No alarm. I walk through sliding doors into Mexico.

Checking in

“Length of stay in country not permitted. Please see a customer service representative.”

That’s what appeared on the electronic check-in screen after I selected my flight and scanned my passport. My ticket’s return date was in August, more than the typical six month Mexican visa period, but I didn’t think the airline would worry about that. Or if they did, I figured the system would have told me when I purchased the ticket. After all, the purchase was directly through United. ‘Oh well, it’s the first hiccup of the journey,’ I thought, and headed with my Dad for customer service.

There were just three people waiting in line, in contrast to the dozens in line to check-in, but it took more than twice as long to get to the front. Long enough for a roaming customer service agent to come along and ask us about our problems. She was a rotund lady with a bright dinosaur sticker on her name badge. Hearing our troubles, she nodded sagely. ‘Yeah, I know what’s going on. That’s going to be difficult to fix.”

We explained that the August return wasn’t important, and besides, I had a ticket to return through a different airline in December, so the visa period would start again in January (still too long a stay, but closer to acceptable). ‘We can just change the date of the ticket, right?’ I said, and my dad added something similar. Her reply, addressed to my dad: ‘Where’s that accent from?’ ‘New Zealand’ ‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘You guys need to do something about that Barramundi.’ Barramundi? What?

In truth, those may not have been her exact words, but she was definitely serving a reproach for the treatment of the beloved Australian fish. Not that I knew it was an Australian fish, anymore than Spanglish for an uncovered world (mundo = world), until a few seconds later in the conversation. We continued talking, though I don’t believe she ever explained why she thought we were going to have problems, until she was called away, and moments later we went to the counter. We explained my situation for the second time as a trainee found my flight, then looking up from the computer, she told us there was no problem and handed me the boarding pass. Our Barramundi-loving friend was nowhere to be seen.

Disclaimer: Details are subject to my memory, which, without a notebook, is notorious.

Ten hours till departure

A year out of high school, I spent a semester studying in London. A few years later, I spent a summer working in Miami. I spent the next summer in the Sierra foothills, living at an all-but abandoned sawmill in a cabin which didn't have doorknob when I moved in. But for the first time, I'm a bit anxious about the next journey. I leave for Mexico tomorrow morning.

After spending a week in the hallway outside my bedroom, my belongings are packed into a weathered brown bag that is likely older than I am. It's filled with cords: one for my camera, one for my cellphone, one for my iPod. My cellphone has been prepped for international calling--this is no Christopher McCandless trip. My iPod has been prepped for immersion--I've stripped it of all but Spanish songs. And I'm ready to prep on the plane for immersion--a bag of dusty flashcards from years of ineffective Spanish classes is ready in my backpack.

I found the insect repellent--with DEET--that my program demanded. I, against my nature, assembled a small pharmacy in case of burns, bites, coughs, colds, putrid water or other horrendous calamities I have never before feared. I packed a book on Mexican history and two choice selections of Fuentes. I've even got my passport. Wait, where did I put that thing?

The thing is, I'm going for less than five weeks. A blink of an eye. I'll be back for Christmas. But I'm still a little nervous. Even with all those cords.