| Samantha 的个人资料Postcards from Mexico照片日志列表 |  工具  帮助 |
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8月24日 Mexican TimeI am hosting a dinner party this weekend, with eight foreigners and two of their spouses. We´ve been sending a ridiculous amount of emails back and forth about it, but these were my favourites. You can tell who is new to Mexico and who has been here for a while... including me, I love Mexican time.
From Ernest, RE: Fiesta de Traje/Potluck Dinner II!
Sam,
Is that 7:30 Mexican time or "normal" time? Ernest
Response from Jesus Hello every one. Mexican time is a concept... a moral restriction, in some ways it´s like a religion... And it works fine!! Specially when it comes to parties, reduces formality, makes everyone except the host feel comfortable (sorry Sam) and in general is a great thing!!! Highly reccommended Just a cultural comment. Un saludito a todos
And Monica... Nice comment. I agree with you. Thanks Jesus. 8月21日 One Year StatisticsNumber of serious marriage proposals- 1
Number of serious marriage proposals seriously turned down- 1
Number of songs I know the words to in Spanish- 62
Number of times I´ve said something embarrasing in Spanish, rather than the intended word- 5
Number of Mexican friends in my cell phone list- 46
Number of times I´ve traveled out of the Metropolis- 6
Number of tacos eaten- pounds gained?
Number of pairs of shoes I´ve worn out by walking- 5
Number of haunted houses visted- 1
Number of photographs taken- 1 838 8月20日 Politest CityOne day at the check-out of a Home Depot in Toronto, the woman scanning my items looked at me strangely and said,
"You're not from here, are you?"
"No", I replied, "I'm originally from a small city two hours from here".
"I can tell", she nodded, "you're polite".
Reader's Digest created a list of the politest cities in the world last month. New York City was number one, Toronto was third, and Mexico City was ninth.
At first the results surprised me and I thought there is no way that Toronto could be considered more polite than Mexico City. Politeness here is a cultural value just as much as home, if not more so. It seems that the greetings and the pleases and thank-you's never end at work, venders always politely offer me assistance and wish me a good day whether I've bought something or not, and people give me their seats on the subway if I'm dressed nicely.
The more I thought about all of this though, the more I realized that the idea of politeness is really cultural and that the RD "test" was completely biased. For example, in Mexico it's perfectly acceptable to form a mob at a counter to get what you want, or to cut infront of someone instead of forming a line. It's also fine to almost run over pedestrians who, in your opinion, are crossing your path on the road. The one that gets me the most is cell phone manners- I went to the most formal dinner of my life here and watched people sending text messages between their witty conversations. These things surprise me, but they really aren't considered rude here.
Here, it's customary for a man to hold open the door for a woman or carry her coat if they're walking together. Many men that I know run around their car to open the door for me, stand when I enter a room, or wait with the door open until I make my way across the hall to get to it. These things would not necessarily be considered polite in Toronto, because of the women's movement. One time my friend Hector asked to hold my sweater as we were walking, and I obliged. He thanked me for not insisting that I could carry it myself, as it would make him look like a clod to others as we went down the street.
In my personal assessment of courtesey, which is just as unscientific and biased as the Reader's Digest one, I still think that Mexico City wins the politeness competition. RD covered the basics, but I think it's the way that people treat each other behind the opened doors is what counts the most. 8月13日 First Dream in SpanishJust as I bid farewell to my evil stomach invaders this week, I caught a cold. In order to attack it before it attacked me, I started drinking the liquid miracle Neo Citran before going to bed. The stuff knocks you and your cold out. One side effect it has on me, however, is really strange, vivid dreams.
One of the dreams was in Spanish, which is something I've waited to happen for a year. I was wondering why I was always dreaming in English, especially since I always used to dream in Portuguese, and talk in Spanish ever day here.
In the dream (in case you want to know), my friend Leila was asking me to name her baby something traditionally English- this is jumping the gun a bit since she gets married in October. I decided on Kaleigh. I had to look up if it was a real name, haha. That's what my brain came up with, amongst other really bizarre things that I barely remember anymore.
I'm hoping that this dream kick starts others in Spanish... but I will try not to induce them with Neo Citran, the stuff gives me a foggy hangover in the morning. 8月7日 American NetworkI would like to say that I exclusively watch Mexican television in order to practice my Spanish, but on chilly nights, I love curling up to watch Oprah on cable TV. I get almost every show that I would in Canada, particularly on channel 45, American Network.
This channel doesn't run traditional commercials, just propaganda for its own shows. I'll often see the same ads in an hour, and the taglines that they use have really been cracking me up. For example:
"A day in the life of an average American family... Everybody Loves Raymond".
"Ask Judge Joe Brown what's on your mind".
"Real human stories... As The World Turns".
This one took the cake this week. I keep seeing an advertisement for the movie "Crazy Canucks", but the voice pronounces the title as "Crazy Canooks"! I'm a crazy canook, eh? 8月1日 Tourista, Go HomeFor a year I've been told that if I want to understand Mexico, I would have to travel to one of its most special cities, Oaxaca (pronounced Wa-ha-ca). Located six hours south-west of Mexico City, it's been hyped as a cradle of civilization. When I got to the promised land, the first thing I saw was a blood red sign that read, "Tourista, Go Home". When I did go home, I was flat-on-my-back sick, later finding out that I had parasites, an intestinal infection and an inflamed stomach. At this point it would take a miracle for that city to seduce me back.
The opportunity seemed perfect- Sylwia and I knew a family with a house in Oaxaca, a house that they only use for holidays. The family's father and son offered to pick us up in Puebla and drive us to the house, which was not only faster than a bus, but better company as well. The car's headlights made the pouring rain look like a wall, but we swiftly swerved around curves on the road, dodging the boulders that had fallen from the mountains. That's not really nerve wracking anymore.
We knew that there had been some problems in the city, but figured that the issues had blown over. The Oaxacan public school teachers have been striking for about two months now, demanding that the state governor step down or get booted out. It started peacefully, but they got noisy and the police eventually intervened, killing some protesters. Things got especially testy during election time, but we checked with locals and they said that things were going to be peaceful when we were there. And so we went.
The scars of the teacher battle were all over the zocalo. It looked like a war had been fought there. It was full of graffiti that said things I won't repeat in English on this blog. There was garbage littered amongst the once elegant cafes, and sketchy looking people camping around the perimeters of the square. In the middle of this muddle were market venders selling their goods at outrageous tourist prices. The sheer amount of bright textiles were bedazzling, but the famous Oaxacan scarves had factory tags saying they were made in Ecuador. Sylwia and I wanted to leave immediately, but decided to wander and stick it out.
I went to ask a lady for directions to a place that would be easier on the eyes. She was small, middle aged, and casually sitting on the side of the street. Her speech was faster and choppier than I'm used to, an interesting contrast to her slow actions and steady gaze. Once she had finished giving me some suggestions, she raised a small plastic bag to my nose. The bag was full of a light, burgendy, shredded substance.
"Chapulines?" she asked.
I had promised myself that I would try this delicacy on my travels, so I took a big pinch and stuffed it into my mouth. Grasshoppers a la Oaxaca taste salty, and a little spicy. I don't like really salty food, so they weren't a big hit with me.
Sylwia and I continued to wind through more markets, stopping to take photos, dodge into shops, or sample Mezcal (the stronger cousin of tequila). We found some streets that started to make us think the city could be special, it would especially be appealing to bohemians. However, the only reason we stayed around was to visit some nearby ruins and small towns (this time by tour bus!).
When our generous hosts were returning to Mexico City, we decided we had had enough touring and decided to go with them. That morning, as we drove home though breath taking mountain ranges, the teachers in Oaxaca took over the government buildings. We were back to the centre of our own world just in time. |
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