Me encantan los colores de México- I love the colors of Mexico. All these photos were taken in the Mexican state of Jalisco. Most were taken in Tlaquepaque, near Guadalajara
Monday, July 29, 2013
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Yoga in the Rainy Season
"The rainy season" of a given geographical area will have its own unique character. I was in Tlaquepaque, in Jalisco, Mexico, in early July, the heart of the rainy season there. The nearly daily storms became the sensory background to some of my favorite experiences during my two week visit. The most memorable storm happened one evening just as my friend Denise and I were arriving at yoga class. This storm of incredible power created a truly magical moment for me.
The storms were erratic. There were 7pm storms, 3am storms, 7am storms, and on a few days no storm at all. This was a 7pm storm. Our other housemate, Edward, had walked to the yoga studio with me. Denise was to meet us there. Just as we arrived at the arched wooden door of the old house, the storm broke. The rain was brutal, the thunder and lightning astonishing. The electricity went out, and there was a sort of tangible nervous excitement running through the foyer as Edward and I and a few other people sat in the dusk wondering if the sky would fall down on us. Whether we were waiting for the yoga class in the other room to finish or to see if we would survive the storm seemed unclear. I looked around and took in the Spanish Colonial details of the room. This room and the rest of the house had the bare beauty and texture that only a grand past of a very long time ago can give. A beautiful iron light fixture hung from the ceiling. The floor was stone. This splendor, juxtaposed with plastic sheeting, partial roofs (I'll get to that in a moment), and peeling plaster, sums up a lot of the Mexican architecture I saw.
To my relief, Denise arrived not too long after Edward and I did, not terribly wet, and cheerful as usual. Then it began to hail, and the deafening weight of it falling on the roof was really frightening. As my further experience in Mexico was to prove, the concept of a house being "watertight" doesn't seem to exist. Water poured in underneath the old wooden door, and it drenched the back half of the house through plastic sheeting stretched under whatever passed as a roof over that section of the old house (I think a good portion was open to the sky). Someone opened the door to look outside, and the water in the street was a couple of feet high. We had that kind of shared moment strangers enjoy when something particularly amazing happens to all of them, and our voices were excited as we exclaimed about the flooding.
I was basking in my situation. The novelty of being in Mexico and taking part in an everyday activity like a yoga class was satisfying. Throughout my time there, it was these ordinary things I most relished doing, because they allowed me to imagine what it would feel like to live in Mexico, instead of being just a tourist. The ironic thing is that I may not have gone to yoga if it hadn't been for Denise, as her interest was greater than mine. I can't imagine what my first week in Mexico would have been like without Denise's friendship and companionship. She was exactly what I needed.
El Refugio
I had paid 50 pesos for the hour-long class (about $3.50) to Daniel, who manned the front of the studio, shortly after we arrived. Daniel, about 15 years old, already felt like a friend. This was Denise's doing. She has this power, literally charm, that draws people to her and instantly converts them into friends. She had "converted" him the day before, as we stood in front of El Refugio, a cultural center across from the yoga studio. Broom in hand, he had called out the answer to her question about Refugio's hours, in good English.
Finally, the storm reached its denouement. The rain lightened, slowed. A woman got a broom and began pushing the water back out the front door. The water in the street was noticably lower. The next day my Spanish teacher told me that the hail had knocked a dozen little birds dead to the ground out of the trees by her house.
The previous class finished and I walked into the room with anticipation. It was a beautiful room, which I have come to value for yoga. Along the front wall were two large arched windows, covered with dark wooden shutters. The floor was of smooth dark wood, and the walls were white plaster. Night was falling. If the electricity had come back on I would have been disappointed. I could hear Edward chatting with a very tall American or Canadian man named Mike, who was a martial arts instructor at the studio. Later I learned that Mike was telling Edward, who has a fear of mosquitoes and dogs, that he had gotten dengue fever and suffered from it for a year. A woman who may have been Daniel's mother brought in a pillar candle, and set it on the floor under one of the windows, exactly in front of a stone statue of an angel, suddenly transforming the room from a damp, dark place into one of candlelit magic. The instant beauty was so overwhelming it brought out a physical response from me, something between a gasp and a sigh. I longed to be able to capture the moment, like a firefly in a jar, and keep it forever exactly as I was seeing it then. I knew I would write about it to hold onto it.
The yoga instructor, José, possibly Daniel's brother, was around 20 years old. He chatted with Denise and me about how we would do the class. He spoke English, but we said we wanted to try to follow him in Spanish. He was very accomodating and sweet. I felt proud of myself for being able to follow the cues in Spanish, and it was amusing when he sometimes patiently repeated a cue while looking pointedly in our direction: "La izquierda..." ("The left...") The yoga felt good, as I breathed out the traveling and adjusting stress my mind and body were holding onto (this was my fourth day in Mexico), and at the end of the class we all hugged each other- standard procedure at this studio.
I left that yoga class aware that I had stepped, for a brief moment, into a community. I had shared life with Mexicans. It was a community that I could imagine myself being a part of, although I knew I never would be. This explains in part my passion for Spanish. It is a key that opens doors to life experiences that would otherwise be closed to me. I think it also explains my occasional dissatisfaction with not being able to do more with Spanish. I can unlock the door, and I can even go in, but I can not stay.
The storms were erratic. There were 7pm storms, 3am storms, 7am storms, and on a few days no storm at all. This was a 7pm storm. Our other housemate, Edward, had walked to the yoga studio with me. Denise was to meet us there. Just as we arrived at the arched wooden door of the old house, the storm broke. The rain was brutal, the thunder and lightning astonishing. The electricity went out, and there was a sort of tangible nervous excitement running through the foyer as Edward and I and a few other people sat in the dusk wondering if the sky would fall down on us. Whether we were waiting for the yoga class in the other room to finish or to see if we would survive the storm seemed unclear. I looked around and took in the Spanish Colonial details of the room. This room and the rest of the house had the bare beauty and texture that only a grand past of a very long time ago can give. A beautiful iron light fixture hung from the ceiling. The floor was stone. This splendor, juxtaposed with plastic sheeting, partial roofs (I'll get to that in a moment), and peeling plaster, sums up a lot of the Mexican architecture I saw.
To my relief, Denise arrived not too long after Edward and I did, not terribly wet, and cheerful as usual. Then it began to hail, and the deafening weight of it falling on the roof was really frightening. As my further experience in Mexico was to prove, the concept of a house being "watertight" doesn't seem to exist. Water poured in underneath the old wooden door, and it drenched the back half of the house through plastic sheeting stretched under whatever passed as a roof over that section of the old house (I think a good portion was open to the sky). Someone opened the door to look outside, and the water in the street was a couple of feet high. We had that kind of shared moment strangers enjoy when something particularly amazing happens to all of them, and our voices were excited as we exclaimed about the flooding.
I was basking in my situation. The novelty of being in Mexico and taking part in an everyday activity like a yoga class was satisfying. Throughout my time there, it was these ordinary things I most relished doing, because they allowed me to imagine what it would feel like to live in Mexico, instead of being just a tourist. The ironic thing is that I may not have gone to yoga if it hadn't been for Denise, as her interest was greater than mine. I can't imagine what my first week in Mexico would have been like without Denise's friendship and companionship. She was exactly what I needed.
El RefugioFinally, the storm reached its denouement. The rain lightened, slowed. A woman got a broom and began pushing the water back out the front door. The water in the street was noticably lower. The next day my Spanish teacher told me that the hail had knocked a dozen little birds dead to the ground out of the trees by her house.
The previous class finished and I walked into the room with anticipation. It was a beautiful room, which I have come to value for yoga. Along the front wall were two large arched windows, covered with dark wooden shutters. The floor was of smooth dark wood, and the walls were white plaster. Night was falling. If the electricity had come back on I would have been disappointed. I could hear Edward chatting with a very tall American or Canadian man named Mike, who was a martial arts instructor at the studio. Later I learned that Mike was telling Edward, who has a fear of mosquitoes and dogs, that he had gotten dengue fever and suffered from it for a year. A woman who may have been Daniel's mother brought in a pillar candle, and set it on the floor under one of the windows, exactly in front of a stone statue of an angel, suddenly transforming the room from a damp, dark place into one of candlelit magic. The instant beauty was so overwhelming it brought out a physical response from me, something between a gasp and a sigh. I longed to be able to capture the moment, like a firefly in a jar, and keep it forever exactly as I was seeing it then. I knew I would write about it to hold onto it.
The yoga instructor, José, possibly Daniel's brother, was around 20 years old. He chatted with Denise and me about how we would do the class. He spoke English, but we said we wanted to try to follow him in Spanish. He was very accomodating and sweet. I felt proud of myself for being able to follow the cues in Spanish, and it was amusing when he sometimes patiently repeated a cue while looking pointedly in our direction: "La izquierda..." ("The left...") The yoga felt good, as I breathed out the traveling and adjusting stress my mind and body were holding onto (this was my fourth day in Mexico), and at the end of the class we all hugged each other- standard procedure at this studio.
I left that yoga class aware that I had stepped, for a brief moment, into a community. I had shared life with Mexicans. It was a community that I could imagine myself being a part of, although I knew I never would be. This explains in part my passion for Spanish. It is a key that opens doors to life experiences that would otherwise be closed to me. I think it also explains my occasional dissatisfaction with not being able to do more with Spanish. I can unlock the door, and I can even go in, but I can not stay.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Lost and Found in Mexico, a review
Lost and Found in Mexico is a documentary by Caren Cross about her experience of moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Cross left behind a successful psycotherapy practice, and it quickly becomes apparent that self-exploration is the theme of this film. The bulk of the content of the documentary is divided between images of Cross walking past gorgeously colored walls throughout the town and interviews with ex-patriate Americans who talk about "finding themselves" in Mexico: reconnecting with their long-forgotten youthful selves, escaping the hurry sickness of American culture, finding healing for the hurts and disappointments of relationships and just the daily grind and high pressure of life in the States. Listening to the interviews is like eavesdropping on a dozen very productive psycotherapy sessions. It's a little touchy-feely. At the same time, it rings true. I've had that experience, of feeling like I had finally "found myself": I was in Burgundy, France, and it broke my heart. Because I had to come back home. The people interviewed in Lost and Found were each in a position to decide, at that pivotal moment, that they didn't have to go back (they initially had come to San Miguel as tourists). Their stories about their impetuous decisions are exciting to hear: "She went to Mexico for 10 days, and on the 10th day she called me and said, 'Honey, we're buying a house.'" A few people point out that their transformative experience wasn't necessarily dependent on being in Mexico- it happened to them because they weren't at home. They just needed to be away, somewhere, and Mexico happened to have a very conducive character, captured by two words: calm, and community. They talk of being able to slow down, of letting go of performing for others, of developing an image of themselves independent of their careers, success, and wealth. Of errands taking twice the usual time, because of running into so many acquaintances and friends along the way-- and being willing to stop and chat. Again, it rings true. It gets me thinking, "What would my life look like if I weren't always hurrying? Who would I be if my value wasn't dependent on my productivity and accomplishments?"
The reason Cross was able to find so many American subjects to interview is that San Miguel de Allende, in the state of Guanajuato, has, according to Tony Cohan, unfortunately been discovered and overrun by hordes of ex-pats. He's written two books about his own transformed life in San Miguel, On Mexican Time and Mexican Days. He admits being partly responsible for the word about the town getting out through his first book.
Well, I'm going to Mexico this summer. To Guadalajara, in the state of Jalisco (home of mariachi and tequila). For three weeks. I'll be going to a Spanish language school and staying with a Mexican family. The seeds for this trip were planted quite a while ago, and watered and fertilized last year in San Antonio when I started this blog. I'm scared. Not scared of what my mom will be scared of when she reads this. Scared it will break my heart to leave.
The reason Cross was able to find so many American subjects to interview is that San Miguel de Allende, in the state of Guanajuato, has, according to Tony Cohan, unfortunately been discovered and overrun by hordes of ex-pats. He's written two books about his own transformed life in San Miguel, On Mexican Time and Mexican Days. He admits being partly responsible for the word about the town getting out through his first book.
Well, I'm going to Mexico this summer. To Guadalajara, in the state of Jalisco (home of mariachi and tequila). For three weeks. I'll be going to a Spanish language school and staying with a Mexican family. The seeds for this trip were planted quite a while ago, and watered and fertilized last year in San Antonio when I started this blog. I'm scared. Not scared of what my mom will be scared of when she reads this. Scared it will break my heart to leave.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Interior Mexican Food
"Interior Mexican food" doesn't have much of a ring to it, but the concept is all the rage in foodie circles. The tag is meant to differentiate the food eaten in the heart of Mexico from that which is eaten in the border areas, or Tex-Mex. It's exciting to see more interest in popularizing a broader range of the diverse food traditions of Mexico. That's what I love about what foodies have done to our dining landscape in America: they've created a market for adventurous eating by talking it up all over the place.
Here in San Antonio, La Gloria Ice House is the best example of this niche of Mexican food. "Street food" is the guiding principle. That may not sound appealing, but street food in Mexico is an art form. At La Gloria, there are bottles of Coke imported from Mexico (made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup), a few different types of ceviche (pickled fish, basically), tlayudas (sort of a Mexican pizza), tortas (who knew Mexicans had their own sandwich cuisine?), panuchos (a type of gordita), sopes (very thick corn tortillas with toppings), and more, as well as lots of different tacos, of course, served on corn, not flour, tortillas.
Let's go to La Gloria for lunch-- it's like eating on the streets of Mexico City or Guadalajara, but without the pesky likelihood of being caught in the crossfire of drug cartel warfare. (To be fair, those two places are not the typical sites of the drug-related horrors happening in Mexico. But still, because of the dangers, this lunch is about as close as I'm going to be able to get to Mexico for quite a while). Here's what I'm ordering: I'll have the Tacos Dorados de Pollo Verde, "Crispy chicken tacos with tomatillo salsa garnished with queso fresco y crema", a Quesadilla Deshebrada, "Corn tortilla filled with shredded beef and queso Oaxaca", and I'll try the Ceviche Verde, "Marinated fish, avocado, tomatillos and manzanilla olives". To drink I'll have the Refresco Mexicano of the day, which may be the bright pink Tuna, which is juice made from the fruit of the prickly pear, or the Jamaica, made from the hibiscus flower. Most food items on the menu are served in small portions, so people with larger appetites could add, say, the Tamal del Dia (tamale of the day) or a sope, or both.
I like atmosphere in a restaurant, and I like hip places. La Gloria satisfies on both counts. It is located beside a recently developed part of the Riverwalk, next to the Pearl Brewery complex. And it is so hip that I saw San Antonio's mayor, Julian Castro, having lunch there on about my third visit.
Urban Taco is a similar restaurant in town that I am just getting to know. It's got a chic atmosphere, and I had a delicious Chicken Tinga taco there, and they have the true mark of this new kind of Mexican restaurant: you have to pay for the chips and salsa. If I remember correctly you get to sample three different kinds of salsa, though. And when I go back I will definitely be getting some churros, "crunchy fluted fritters" in Rick Bayless' words.
Here in San Antonio, La Gloria Ice House is the best example of this niche of Mexican food. "Street food" is the guiding principle. That may not sound appealing, but street food in Mexico is an art form. At La Gloria, there are bottles of Coke imported from Mexico (made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup), a few different types of ceviche (pickled fish, basically), tlayudas (sort of a Mexican pizza), tortas (who knew Mexicans had their own sandwich cuisine?), panuchos (a type of gordita), sopes (very thick corn tortillas with toppings), and more, as well as lots of different tacos, of course, served on corn, not flour, tortillas.
Let's go to La Gloria for lunch-- it's like eating on the streets of Mexico City or Guadalajara, but without the pesky likelihood of being caught in the crossfire of drug cartel warfare. (To be fair, those two places are not the typical sites of the drug-related horrors happening in Mexico. But still, because of the dangers, this lunch is about as close as I'm going to be able to get to Mexico for quite a while). Here's what I'm ordering: I'll have the Tacos Dorados de Pollo Verde, "Crispy chicken tacos with tomatillo salsa garnished with queso fresco y crema", a Quesadilla Deshebrada, "Corn tortilla filled with shredded beef and queso Oaxaca", and I'll try the Ceviche Verde, "Marinated fish, avocado, tomatillos and manzanilla olives". To drink I'll have the Refresco Mexicano of the day, which may be the bright pink Tuna, which is juice made from the fruit of the prickly pear, or the Jamaica, made from the hibiscus flower. Most food items on the menu are served in small portions, so people with larger appetites could add, say, the Tamal del Dia (tamale of the day) or a sope, or both.
I like atmosphere in a restaurant, and I like hip places. La Gloria satisfies on both counts. It is located beside a recently developed part of the Riverwalk, next to the Pearl Brewery complex. And it is so hip that I saw San Antonio's mayor, Julian Castro, having lunch there on about my third visit.
Urban Taco is a similar restaurant in town that I am just getting to know. It's got a chic atmosphere, and I had a delicious Chicken Tinga taco there, and they have the true mark of this new kind of Mexican restaurant: you have to pay for the chips and salsa. If I remember correctly you get to sample three different kinds of salsa, though. And when I go back I will definitely be getting some churros, "crunchy fluted fritters" in Rick Bayless' words.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Clase de Espanol
I haven't written a post in several weeks. Besides trying out recipes from Rick Bayless, my mexiphile energies have been directed toward Spanish class.
I signed up for a class through the community education branch of the school district. It was canceled, I assume because too few people enrolled. I found another class, and though I am paying five times more (!), I'm getting a very intensive course, 6 hours a week for 9 weeks through the University of Guadalajara's International Language Center at San Antonio, ILCSA.
My Spanish is somehow, at the same time, both better and worse than I thought. I can understand almost everything the instructor is saying, unless I allow my attention to lapse (thanks to all my hard work listening to Spanish pop music and watching mindless Spanish TV). I am re-learning my verb endings, and there are not so many to remaster as I feared. I understand a very broad range of vocabulary. But, boy do I feel dumb when I try to converse! Even in that department, it's a 50/50 mix: sometimes I'm brilliant. Okay, maybe even more than half the time. But la perfeccionista (me) is not happy with that. I feel driven to accomplish perfect Spanish skills. What I really want is to have the skills of a native speaker. Well, obviously that's not going to happen. Nevertheless, on the whole I am really enjoying the experience, and I am amazed to see how much more I am owning my learning than when I majored in Spanish at UTSA. I find it sad that the maturity to be an excellent learner doesn't arrive until one's life is crowded with many other responsibilites and demands. When I was 18, I had time on my hands, and I enjoyed learning, but what did I know of how to make the most of the opportunity before me? At 36, I long to be able to acquire knowledge and understanding, but that has to be a sideline in my life right now (academically speaking, anyway). Well, maybe it is that scarcity that makes it precious to me.
The class I'm currently taking is Level 3 of 6 offered at the language institute. I don't know how long I'll be able to commit time- and money-wise, but for now estoy muy contenta.
I signed up for a class through the community education branch of the school district. It was canceled, I assume because too few people enrolled. I found another class, and though I am paying five times more (!), I'm getting a very intensive course, 6 hours a week for 9 weeks through the University of Guadalajara's International Language Center at San Antonio, ILCSA.
My Spanish is somehow, at the same time, both better and worse than I thought. I can understand almost everything the instructor is saying, unless I allow my attention to lapse (thanks to all my hard work listening to Spanish pop music and watching mindless Spanish TV). I am re-learning my verb endings, and there are not so many to remaster as I feared. I understand a very broad range of vocabulary. But, boy do I feel dumb when I try to converse! Even in that department, it's a 50/50 mix: sometimes I'm brilliant. Okay, maybe even more than half the time. But la perfeccionista (me) is not happy with that. I feel driven to accomplish perfect Spanish skills. What I really want is to have the skills of a native speaker. Well, obviously that's not going to happen. Nevertheless, on the whole I am really enjoying the experience, and I am amazed to see how much more I am owning my learning than when I majored in Spanish at UTSA. I find it sad that the maturity to be an excellent learner doesn't arrive until one's life is crowded with many other responsibilites and demands. When I was 18, I had time on my hands, and I enjoyed learning, but what did I know of how to make the most of the opportunity before me? At 36, I long to be able to acquire knowledge and understanding, but that has to be a sideline in my life right now (academically speaking, anyway). Well, maybe it is that scarcity that makes it precious to me.
The class I'm currently taking is Level 3 of 6 offered at the language institute. I don't know how long I'll be able to commit time- and money-wise, but for now estoy muy contenta.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
My Mexican Kitchen
On my shopping list last week:
Limes (lots)
Cilantro
Jalapenos
Corn Tortillas
Tomatillos
Crema (Mexican sour cream)
Avocados
Mangos
I actually followed through with my intentions to use these ingredients by...cooking! But my timing wasn't very good-- my husband was out of town for the first iteration: Black Bean-Chicken Tostadas with Salsa Verde. I even fried the corn tortillas to make the tostadas. I was pretty impressed with myself, even if dinner was finally ready over an hour late.
What happened to me? I got hooked on Rick Bayless. I think I am wearing out his welcome in our home by constantly beginning sentences with, "Rick Bayless says...". Actually now all I have to say is "He says..." and my husband knows who I mean. Rick Bayless brought real "interior" Mexican cooking to the U.S. Maybe he wasn't the first. There's also Diana Kennedy, and she's a lot older than Rick, but based on my limited knowledge, I think of him as analogous to Julia Child with French food. At least he's my Julia Child when it comes to Mexican food. What excites me as I learn about the food eaten in Mexico is that it is so much broader than Tex-Mex. I haven't discovered everything there is to discover about Tex-Mex, and I'm not knocking it, but after reading so many Tex-Mex restaurant menus, the prospect of exploring a greater range of food I'd never known about is enticing. And some of the equipment used to make the food is so ancient, primitive, and earthy, which adds to the intrigue. I think I'll be getting a molcajete ,a Mexican mortar. "He" says basalt is the kind to get. Rick's show, Mexico: One Plate at a Time, airs on PBS weekly, and maybe even on the Food Network (?). About half of the scenes are shot in Mexico, the other half in Rick's Chicago home. I love the scenes from Mexico, of street and restaurant food being prepared and eaten. I ordered a DVD from the first season of the show, but have only seen one episode of what's airing currently. It was enough to get me going. I also bought the companion cookbook, of the same name as the series.
Slight problem with this new manifestation of my multi-faceted obsession with things Mexican-- I can't even think about eating anything other than Mexican--true Mexican-- food right now, and I'm even beginning to turn up my nose at Taco Cabana (well, a little bit). I did manage to eat the pizza my husband made today. And if I'm cooking, I'm sure he'll be happy to eat Mexican, until I calm down a little, and it doesn't hurt that Rick's classic margarita recipe is killer.
Limes (lots)
Cilantro
Jalapenos
Corn Tortillas
Tomatillos
Crema (Mexican sour cream)
Avocados
Mangos
I actually followed through with my intentions to use these ingredients by...cooking! But my timing wasn't very good-- my husband was out of town for the first iteration: Black Bean-Chicken Tostadas with Salsa Verde. I even fried the corn tortillas to make the tostadas. I was pretty impressed with myself, even if dinner was finally ready over an hour late.
What happened to me? I got hooked on Rick Bayless. I think I am wearing out his welcome in our home by constantly beginning sentences with, "Rick Bayless says...". Actually now all I have to say is "He says..." and my husband knows who I mean. Rick Bayless brought real "interior" Mexican cooking to the U.S. Maybe he wasn't the first. There's also Diana Kennedy, and she's a lot older than Rick, but based on my limited knowledge, I think of him as analogous to Julia Child with French food. At least he's my Julia Child when it comes to Mexican food. What excites me as I learn about the food eaten in Mexico is that it is so much broader than Tex-Mex. I haven't discovered everything there is to discover about Tex-Mex, and I'm not knocking it, but after reading so many Tex-Mex restaurant menus, the prospect of exploring a greater range of food I'd never known about is enticing. And some of the equipment used to make the food is so ancient, primitive, and earthy, which adds to the intrigue. I think I'll be getting a molcajete ,a Mexican mortar. "He" says basalt is the kind to get. Rick's show, Mexico: One Plate at a Time, airs on PBS weekly, and maybe even on the Food Network (?). About half of the scenes are shot in Mexico, the other half in Rick's Chicago home. I love the scenes from Mexico, of street and restaurant food being prepared and eaten. I ordered a DVD from the first season of the show, but have only seen one episode of what's airing currently. It was enough to get me going. I also bought the companion cookbook, of the same name as the series.
Slight problem with this new manifestation of my multi-faceted obsession with things Mexican-- I can't even think about eating anything other than Mexican--true Mexican-- food right now, and I'm even beginning to turn up my nose at Taco Cabana (well, a little bit). I did manage to eat the pizza my husband made today. And if I'm cooking, I'm sure he'll be happy to eat Mexican, until I calm down a little, and it doesn't hurt that Rick's classic margarita recipe is killer.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Next year's Diez y Seis
I ended up going to the Independencia ceremony at Municipal Auditorium by myself. Oddly, I began having flashbacks the day of the ceremony of having gone to one years ago, when we lived in San Antonio the first time. That time mi esposo querido, my dear spouse, was with me. He astounded me when I got home from the ceremony Wednesday night by telling me that he remembered even more than I did about that night: we were interviewed by a newspaper reporter and were quoted in the next day's paper! It is not like me to forget such things. Anyway, I now remember that I was especially interested in going that year because the Instituto Cultural Mexicano is the/a main sponsor, and I had just begun volunteering there as a docent to school groups for the Institute's Diego Rivera exhibit. I got that gig by responding to an ad in the paper. I remember the ad stipulated that the respondent be 21, and I was still only 20! But they took me anyway. What a privilege! I wish I had done more there-- I don't think I did anything after that one exhibit, though I did interview the director- in Spanish- for a class, as I was at UTSA working on my Spanish degree.
Well, back to the celebracion. It was delightful. Many women were beautifully decked out in traditional dresses, while others, both men and women, sported Mexico's team soccer shirts. Several women who were not fully costumed in Mexican garb had made an effort to add some Mexican-inspired flair to their outfits, like long tiered skirts or bright red or green shawls.
I most enjoyed listening to the couple sitting behind me as they enjoyed the evening. They were around 50 years old, and the man wore a black cowboy hat, as did many of the Mexican men. He was a real jugeton, jokester (serendipitously, I just learned that word in an obituary I read today in the San Antonio Express-News ("Garcia's Blue Moon Cafe...")). They were a charming combination: he whistling very loudly in approbation of the performers, making little jokes throughout the evening, and singing along with the songs of the Mariachis; she laughing and giggling and enjoying his clowning.
My regret is that I did not befriend this couple right away. Once when he was singing--he had a marvelous voice and knew every word-- I made a clapping motion behind me to applaud him. Then, as the military drill team was preparing to exit the auditorium, I started to leave, then stopped, thinking maybe I should wait as a sign of respect. It was then that she tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. She asked me, "Estas de aqui in San Antonio?" "Are you from here in San Antonio?" "Si..." I hesitated, unsure how much information I ought to attempt in Spanish. "Pues, de muchas veces. Mi esposo es en la Fuerza Aerea. Pero no soy Mexicana." "Well, from many times (I meant to say muchos lugares, many places). My husband is in the Air Force. But I am not Mexican." Embarrassed and unsure what else I could say, I turned back around, and we spoke no more. Sigh. They were as interested in me as a curiosity (non-Mexican) as I was in them. I had an opportunity, not only to speak Spanish, but to enjoy interacting with them. This happens to me all the time. I have become painfully shy. I could speak Spanish multiple times a day if I were bold enough. I have Spanish-speaking neighbors next door and down the street whom I have not even told that I speak Spanish. I want to be more outgoing. At next year's celebration, I hope to wear something Mexican, and chat with some Spanish-speakers.
Well, back to the celebracion. It was delightful. Many women were beautifully decked out in traditional dresses, while others, both men and women, sported Mexico's team soccer shirts. Several women who were not fully costumed in Mexican garb had made an effort to add some Mexican-inspired flair to their outfits, like long tiered skirts or bright red or green shawls.
I most enjoyed listening to the couple sitting behind me as they enjoyed the evening. They were around 50 years old, and the man wore a black cowboy hat, as did many of the Mexican men. He was a real jugeton, jokester (serendipitously, I just learned that word in an obituary I read today in the San Antonio Express-News ("Garcia's Blue Moon Cafe...")). They were a charming combination: he whistling very loudly in approbation of the performers, making little jokes throughout the evening, and singing along with the songs of the Mariachis; she laughing and giggling and enjoying his clowning.
My regret is that I did not befriend this couple right away. Once when he was singing--he had a marvelous voice and knew every word-- I made a clapping motion behind me to applaud him. Then, as the military drill team was preparing to exit the auditorium, I started to leave, then stopped, thinking maybe I should wait as a sign of respect. It was then that she tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. She asked me, "Estas de aqui in San Antonio?" "Are you from here in San Antonio?" "Si..." I hesitated, unsure how much information I ought to attempt in Spanish. "Pues, de muchas veces. Mi esposo es en la Fuerza Aerea. Pero no soy Mexicana." "Well, from many times (I meant to say muchos lugares, many places). My husband is in the Air Force. But I am not Mexican." Embarrassed and unsure what else I could say, I turned back around, and we spoke no more. Sigh. They were as interested in me as a curiosity (non-Mexican) as I was in them. I had an opportunity, not only to speak Spanish, but to enjoy interacting with them. This happens to me all the time. I have become painfully shy. I could speak Spanish multiple times a day if I were bold enough. I have Spanish-speaking neighbors next door and down the street whom I have not even told that I speak Spanish. I want to be more outgoing. At next year's celebration, I hope to wear something Mexican, and chat with some Spanish-speakers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)