I've found my home

the duck and parrot

My mum lives in the middle of nowhere. To be a little more precise, she lives near a Broad in Norfolk.

Mum: While I'm talking, I'm watching a duck on the roof of the house across the street.

This piece of information fascinates Maria. She is stunned that, quite regularly, ducks will waddle up the road from the Broad, and into my mum's garden. Real ducks! Real, alive ducks! Just wandering around the streets. She cannot believe that there are road signs, warning drivers that there might be ducks in the road. She finds it totally amazing that ducks exist in the wild.

Me: That's odd. While I'm talking, I'm watching a parrot sitting on the telephone pole across the street.

This piece of information fascinates my mother. She is stunned to hear that, quite regularly I can watch parrots fly overhead. Real parrots! Real, alive parrots! Just flying around, in the sky, without a care in the world. She cannot believe that everyone else hasn't stopped, in the street, to stare at the sight of a real live parrot on the telephone pole. She finds it totally amazing that parrots exist in the wild.

Actually, I'm with my mum on this one. I still stop and stare when I see parrots. Two days ago, during recess, I interrupted the kids while they were eating their lunch, to point out a humming bird. Yes! A real live humming bird. Just hovering around, moving in and out of the trees. And there was no David Attenborough sound track! Who would believe it? Well, to be honest, only me. The kids at school looked at the humming bird, looked at me, shook their heads in a (fairly) patronising way, and then carried on eating.

Mind you, they all stopped eating when I shouted: "Look! A duck!!"

it's great to be english

Incident One

Maria reads an email from Alan to me. She asks me what I had done to cause this consternation in Alan's life. I show her the email I had written Alan. She reads it.

Maria: So, let me get this straight. You wrote something thoughtless in your blog. Alan is worried that he has upset you. You then write to Alan apologising for upsetting him. He then writes to you apologising for making you feel that you have to apologise. You now want to write back apologising for making him feel like he should apologise for making you apologise? Of course, you know that this means that Alan would have to write a further email, apologising for making you apologise for making him apologise for making you apologise. Is that about it?

Me: Yeah. Sort of. Except, of course, if he writes apologising again, I'll have to write back apologising.

Maria: Run it past me again - how did the English manage to find time to build an Empire? I mean, once you invaded a country, didn't you just spend the whole time apologising for not wiping your feet when you stepped off the boats?

Incident Two

We park the car and head towards Vons (a supermarket). As usual there is a person stood outside the store with a clipboard. She approaches us.

Clipboard: Excuse me. Are you registered to vote?

Me: Yes. But not in this country.

Clipboard: Ooooo. Aren't you posh. What with your smoking and your English accent.

Incident Three

Maria is on the phone to her mother.

Mum: But how did you know? How could you know?

Maria: It's hard to explain. You have to know him.

Mum: Explain it. Try to explain it

Maria: He's too polite.

Mum: What do you mean: "He's too polite"?

Maria: It's just that, he's too polite. It is that simple.

Mum: You are telling me that the reason you knew he wasn't an internet axe muderer was because "he's too polite"?

Maria: That's it. It is as simple as that. He's too English to be an internet axe murderer. He's too polite. It would be too messy. It just wouldn't be "the done thing".

Incident Four

Maria: I told my mum that you were too polite to be an internet axe muderer.

Me: Uh-hmm.

Maria: I told her that it just wouldn't be the done thing.

Me: True. Too true. There is no way I'd be an axe murderer. An axe would be totally the wrong thing to use. Probably a hatchet. Yes, a hatchet. I mean, a machete would be too much for murdering with.

Maria: Exactly what I was telling my mum. There was no way you'd be an internet axe murderer. You're too English.

Me: Yep. I know which knife to use, which fork to use, and I sure as hell know what implement of death to use.

Maria: Yeah, that wasn't quite the angle I took with my mum. But, let's go with: "You're English"!

it's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to

It is probably me - or is it? Maria asked me, this morning, to tell her a story about one of my birthday parties. Now, if you know one thing about me, you know that the chance to hold-the-floor and tell a story, isn't something that I miss. Except...except, I didn't have any stories. I don't remember any of the parties I had before I was 12, apart from the one on my 12th birthday (and the story connected with that has nothing to do with the party). My parents didn't believe in parties once you were a teenager, so there weren't any stories to tell during my teenage year - oh, except for the day my boarding school burnt down and I spent my 18th birthday getting drunk with several firemen and then discovering that I was the second coming of the big Jee. But that is a well known (to Maria) story. My father put in an appearance on my 21st birthday but there was no party. And there was a surprise party on my 30th - a story Maria also knew. And that was that. No other parties to talk about.

Maria talked about an event at her 22nd b'day party, which was sweet. However, when she was 22, I was 34, and it was that during that year that (with 20/20 hindsight I can see) the first domino fell,in a series of dominoes, culminating in the collapse of my marriage. And this is starting to sound maudlin, which was not my intention, however, it is probably me. I don't know if it is my Englishness or my upbringing but I feel embarrassed about my birthday. It's like I am celebrating a day that I had nothing to do with. But, I am three-fifths of the way to being Mexican...so, time to change the direction of this post, become more Mexican and celebrate!!!

I was born on May 15th in England. This presents a couple of problems in my new life in Mexico. The first is that, theoretically/mathematically/time-differencely, I was actually born on May 14th in Mexico. The second problem (for the school and students) is that there is no school  on May 15th - it being Teacher's Day. These two events, taken together, means that I get to celebrate my birthday over two days. Actually, to be more accurate, everyone else gets to celebrate my birthday over two days. You see, your birthday isn't so much about you celebrating, as it is about everyone else celebrating the fact that you are alive and in their lives.

The sixth grade - the sixth grade who have caused me so much heartache, so much trouble, so many sleepless nights - were wonderful. After being sung to, by the whole school, I taught the sixth grade for two hours. It was a good lesson, they were attentive, we got a huge amount of work done, one of those lessons that you wish you could bottle/save/pull out every day. Of course (with my amazing 20/20 hindsight), I should have realised that the game was afoot. As I struggled through a rehearsal, the sixth grade out their plans into action and at 11 o'clock, threw a surprise party for me.

My love of tacos is well known to my students, thus tacos appeared. I was allowed to take as many tacos as I wished. I took one. No, no, they insisted, take more. I took another. Please Mr. Kay take more!! I insisted that I wanted to share and was then informed that I could have as many as I liked...so long as I didn't take more than four! They had ordered 20 tacos, figuring that I would have four and there would be one each left over.

We have been discussing foods from different cultures in the English lesson. One student made a sushi cake for the party.

Every recess/lunchtime I always have a sandwich. Sofia's mum makes the best sandwiches in the world, so there were two piles of sandwiches.

Four buckets of KFC. A huge chocolate cake. Three tubs of Oreo ice-cream.

And the children were apologetic. They were really sorry that they hadn't been able to provide two things that they knew I liked: toast and coke. They had asked permission from the school if they could bring a toaster into school but permission was denied. Students are only allowed to bring fizzy pop (soda) into school for parties but are not allowed to bring in drinks that include caffeine.

However, the whole event was wonderful. And, what made it even better for me, the fantastic thing was that it taught me something about birthdays. Birthdays are actually a celebration that the person is alive, that he is in their lives. The sixth grade spent most of the party, checking that I was happy, checking that I was surprised, but, mostly, reaffirming that they liked me. They wanted to celebrate the fact that I had come into their lives.

Damn! I'm going to have to finish this post with the phrase: that I had made a difference.

I think I'm going to go cry a little bit, over there, in the corner. Hell, it's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to!

not all tequila and mariachis

It has been officially decided that I am back in a good mood. This is important, here in Casa de WillandMaria. There are moments I dread, moments when I am perceived to be in a bad mood (ie. a mood that means I am not happy) because Maria takes it personally. This means that she, unilaterally, decides that it is her fault and the solution is: I leave. Now, I understand her logic: (1) Will is in a bad mood (b) I am Will's everything (III) I am therefore the cause of Will's bad mood (delta) If Will is not with me he will be in a good mood (ergo) Will leaves and everything will be happy in his world. Of course, understanding her logic and her logic being logical is a totally different thing. When she mutters the word leave, I go into total freak mode. I know that it isn't what I want, but she just said it, so it might be what she wants, she wants me to leave? If I wasn't upset before, I am totally mortified now.

The punchline is: if I'm in a not-good mood then I really have to tread lightly. However, it is official (I've just shouted over and checked) I am in a good mood. So, in that case, I can say a couple of things that I hate about Mexico, without it meaning that I want to leave. Yes, there are actually a couple of things I dislike about Mexico - I know, I have always painted it as sweetness and light but - I need to rant about two things (I say two things now, because there are two things that really piss me off, of course, once I get into the flow, who knows how much bile will come out? However, if you are reading this Maria [as if you don't] remember (1) I love Mexico (b) I love you (III) I am in a good mood (delta) I am not leaving!).

Bins by the Toilet

Beside most toilets in Mexico there is a bin (not in our flat). This is for used toilet paper. And when I say used toilet paper I don't mean for that moment when you blow your nose or rearrange your mascara - I mean when you have used toilet paper for what toilet paper was meant to be used for. Why? Because for years there was a plumbing problem in Mexico. Toilets couldn't flush away toilet paper. It appears that there might still be a plumbing problem, toilets still can't flush away toilet paper. But - and I suppose this is just me - I really can't deal with bins beside the toilet. I suppose it is me, or maybe it is my upbringing, or maybe it is my Englishness, but I really don't need to know that someone has used a toilet before me. Oh, I know that someone has used the toilet before me but, in my rose-tinted world, I can pretend, can't I? The last thing I need to know (to see) is that someone has been there before.

Banks

I just don't understand how banks work in Mexico. From the age of 16 (and that is thirty years ago) I have been courted by banks for my patronage. I moved banks three times as an adult. Each time was a massive upheaval - changing standing orders, getting new cheque books, just that whole moving-from-a-comfort-zone into the unknown. But it wasn't a total unknown. Each bank made me feel welcome, offered me a sexy new deal. Each time was a step-up. I knew that the bank wanted my custom and they were willing to bend over (in what they thought) was backwards to get me to sign on the dotted line. True, they didn't offer me the world on a stick because they were going to make a profit out of my money. So they offered me free chequebooks, free statements, a cash point card (ATM), free overdrafts, and interest. And all of these things totalled a lot less than the interest they were charging for loans - and that was what they were doing with my money, loaning it out at exorbitant prices. But I knew that, they knew that I knew that, and we were both happy with the arrangement. Here, in Mexico, it as though the bank is doing me a favour. My wages are paid into an account, an account that is only accessible via a cash point card. Each time I use the card I am charged 7 pesos. In other words, it costs me to get my money back. I am not allowed a chequebook. If I want a chequebook I have to open another account (for which I need the names of three referees). For this account I will be charged 200 pesos a month. Each cheque I use I will also be charged for. None of this makes sense to me. How much profit does the bank make with my money? And then they charge me every month for the privilege of being used like this. Partially, I feel as if my place of employment charged me for working there, rather than paying me. However, this is not what annoys me the most about banks in Mexico. And (and this will come as a surprise to any Mexican reading this) it isn't the queues in the bank either. Seriously, if you actually try to visit a bank you have to factor in a wait of at least an hour. And then, more often than not, when you get to the window, you discover that the cashier can't deal with your problem (you know, something complicated, like putting money in your account) and you have to go see someone else (another hour). No, it isn't the queues that annoy me the most. It is the fact that I have yet to find a bank in Mexico that is connected to the internet, that can actually cope with international banking. Fact: I have an account with HSBC - the world's bank. Unfortunately HSBC Mexico doesn't seem to acknowledge the rest of the world. This might not be as surprising as you thought. A bank in Mexico can't recognise the bank next door. Our landlady is registered with Banorte. We have to take our money out of an HSBC, cross the road, pay it into a Banorte. It takes two hours to pay the rent. At least that is possible. It is impossible to pay anything into a bank in England from Mexico. Actually, to be fair, it is impossible to pay anything into a bank in England from the USA. It is like the internet doesn't exist. There is no connection between banks. They just don't talk. And (to make matters worse) the world's bank doesn't talk to any other branches outside Mexico. It appears the world isn't as big as I thought it was - or maybe it is a fuck of a lot bigger.

And I can feel myself dropping into rant mode. So I'll stop now.

I am still happy, though. I'm not leaving!

three stories

I received an email t'other day from someone who had found my blog via expat-blog.com. He was thinking of moving to Mexico and asked, in a polite way, why the hell [had I ended up in] Tijuana? The obvious answer was/is love. But, for a second or two, I was confused. Why not Tijuana? It is filled with wonderful people, it is a wonderful city, situated in a wonderful country. Why not Tijuana? In the last six days, three events have reminded me what others see in this city. The news reports, my own blog posts, any television programme/hollywood film that mentions Tijuana. These stories don't change my mind about how I feel about this city but I can see how, to someone who doesn't live here, they can be scary.

Story One

Alejandra doesn't come into school on Friday. The morning passes, lessons are taught, recess is arrived at. As the sixth grade sit around, eating their lunch, Alejandra appears - not in uniform. She's leaving. She's come to say goodbye. She hugs her friends, a few cry, she cleans out her book cubby in the classroom, she leaves. Not just the school, not just the city, she leaves the country. On Thursday she had been in school with no knowledge of what was going to happen in the next 24 hours. As she struggled over algebra, her father was receiving the first of his kidnap threats of the day. By the time she had moved on to her music lesson, he had received his second warning/threat. By the time she got home it was discover that she had to pack - everything. With armed security guards around the house, (paid for by her father) the family spent the night preparing to leave the country. In the morning, with everything in boxes and the boxes in vans, Alejandra was allowed to visit school and say goodbye. There was no surprise shown from her classmates, hers is a familiar story at this school. At just like that....she's gone.

Story Two

Twenty metres as the crow flies, fifty metres if you have to walk around the corner, there is a shop. It is our local. No coke - go to shop. No cigarettes - go to shop. No bread - go to shop. No idea what to eat - go to shop. The guy who works there is wonderful. Two and a bit years ago I spoke no Spanish, he spoke no English. Now we struggle through conversations wonderfully. He is the only person I talk to in Spanish regularly. He is brilliant. He opens his shop at 7 every morning and closes at 8 every night - except on Sundays when he opens at 8 and closes at 7. Monday evening two kids/teenagers (young teenagers) came into his shop and went to the back, where he keeps his six fridges full of drinks (note: only two work, so if you want a cold drink make sure you go to the fridges on the right). They both grabbed a bottle of beer each and headed out of the door. The owner ran out of the door after them.There was a car waiting outside, which the kids were getting into, and the owner shouted at them. The driver got out of the car and pulled a gun. The owner ran back into the shop, followed by the driver. With a gun in his face he was forced to empty out the cash register and hand over all his money (hey, we all know that he never keeps his money in the register - but we're locals). The gunman then swept everything off the counter, onto the floor, and walked out. The owner apologises to us, for the foreseeable future he will be closing the huge iron gate in front of the shop from 5pm onwards. He'll still be open but you'll have to ask for stuff from the shelves and he'll pass it through.

Story Three

This week I am on car door opening in the morning. This is a task I have to do every other week. At 7:30, I go out of the school, on to the pavement, and open car doors. There is a team of six teachers each morning. The cars pull up in front of the school, we step forward, open the door, say "Good morning", let the kid out the car, close the door, step back. The cars queue up, move forward in sets of six, move off. It can become a bit automatic, especially if you aren't fully awake. Tuesday morning I wasn't totally concentrating on my job. I was a bit down, bit thoughtful, spending a lot of time staring at my feet, before stepping forward to open a door. A car would pull up in front of me, I'd step to the door, open it, raise my head, look at the child, smile, go through the routine. I was in the pattern, not fully concentrating. A black pick-up pulled up in front of me, the windows were tinted, there was only one door, I opened it, lifted my face, and stared down the barrel of an automatic rifle. Several of the parents drive their children to school and are followed by bodyguards. If you are paying attention you can normally notice them.Otherwise you end up staring down the barrel of a gun.

the hottest day of the year so far

The hottest day of the year so far. This doesn't impress me as I have a stinking cold. My sinuses are blocked and I have that stuffed feeling behind my eyes. Worse, I have become a "mouth-breather". My nose is totally useless for inhaling. It is make up by doubling it's exhaling. I sneeze, in sets of four, every ten minutes and it is permanently (look away now) running (sorry). My mouth is dry, permanently dry. The heat, combined with the breathing, means that I have to permanently sip liquids. This annoys me, in that way that stupid things can annoy you, because I want to be dehydrated! In my mind (in my mind) I am convinced that if I am dehydrated my nose would stop running - hey, I didn't say that colds made me an intellectual!

The hottest day of the year so far and Maria spends the day spring cleaning. I come home to a clean house (no dust to irritate my nose - oh, hang on, still going to sneeze a lot!) with all the windows open. The house is cooler than outside and, probably, smells wonderful. I can't tell.

The hottest day of the year so far and it is draining. This has been the longest week, topped off with a Friday meeting after school. A meeting that goes on for two hours. This cold has really taken it out of me, this week has really taken it out of me. I just want to go to bed and sleep but the kids are here. Also there are 'foreign' kids in the house, Dani has brought two friends home with her. There is no way I can go to bed. I drag my body, wearily, through the rest of the day, until nine when everyone goes home. I want to go to bed but we haven't eaten. Maria prepares me a chicken, tomato, and noodle soup and we collapse in front of the television. An episode of Gilmore Girls. Ten minutes into the second episode I can't stay awake anymore. I announce that I'm going to bed.

The hottest day of the year so far and I go through my "going to bed ritual". Television off, DVD off, computer off, balcony door closed and locked, front door closed and locked. I'm leaving all the windows open, it's the hottest day of the year so far. Thanks to my cold my ears have popped. I'm living in a world where all the excess noise are being filtered. As I turn the lights off and move towards the bedroom Tijuana sounds quiet - quiet for Tijuana and positively morgue like for Tijuana on a Friday night. No car noises, no sirens, no gun shots, no mariachi music, no karaoke. The only sound is dogs barking. Lots of dogs barking. I'm no expert on dog counting, when only hearing them bark, but I would put the number at more than fifteen but less than fifty - let's go with lots. There are lots of dogs barking. And then the neighbour's dog, downstairs, joins in. So there are lots of dogs plus one barking.

Me: Can you hear all the dogs barking?

Maria: I'm getting pyjamas and putting them beside the bed.

Me: Pardon?

Maria: I'm getting my pyjamas and putting them beside the bed.

Me: Yes, I heard you. I'm just not sure what you are saying not what you are saying. I'm ill aren't I?

Maria: I'm getting pyjamas and putting them beside my bed because I don't want to be the one, crazy, woman running round the street naked.

Me: Again. I hear what you are saying but I'm not sure I understand what you are saying.

Maria: There is always one, crazy, woman running round the street naked and I don't want it to be me. Oh god, I hope that it isn't the woman from number two. It would be just like her to be the one, crazy, naked woman running round the street. And, let's face it, if there is one woman I don't want to see naked, it's the woman from number two.

Me: I'm lost. Did I blackout in the middle of a conversation? What the fuck are you on about.

Maria: I need my pyjamas beside my bed so that when we get up in the middle of the night and run outside I won't be the one, crazy woman running around naked.

Me: Nope. Still not computing.

Maria: Can you hear the dogs?

Me: Errrr, yes. I think that is how the conversation started.

Maria: Why do you think all the dogs are barking?

Me: Ok, you've got me there. Is it something to do with 101 Dalmatians?

Maria: Nope. Earthquake. All the dogs are barking. What do you think the first warning of an earthquake is? And, if there is an earthquake, I'm not going to be the one, crazy woman running round the street naked. I love you. Goodnight.

Me: I love you. Goodnight.

It's the hottest day of the year so far. I have a stinking cold. I am tired, really tired. Shattered. Five minutes ago I thought I couldn't stay awake to save my life. I realise that, as a statement, that is probably the most incorrect I have ever been. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to lots of dogs (plus one) barking. I reach out from under the covers and check that my pyjamas are still there, on the floor, beside the bed. I wonder if I should put them on now. I don't want to be the mad foreigner running naked in the street.

It's the hottest day of the year so far and I sleep fully dressed.

whether the weather

Gotta lurve being English! Whenever I phone my mum, Maria listens in and then bursts out laughing whenever we start talking about the weather. On of the joys of being English is that the weather is never the same one day to the next - often from one hour to the next. Hell, if the weather stays the same for more than two days, in England, it becomes an even more important topic of conversation.

This makes Maria laugh because she is not used to talking about the weather. The weather is always the same in her mind. Why would you talk about it, when it hasn't changed.

Except, it does.

She might not notice it but, 46 years of training, I notice every small change. And it does change.

Yes, this is California, Baja California, but the weather does change. It gets cold during the winter, it gets hot during the summer. But during Spring it is all over the place. Last Saturday we were at the beach, Monday we were wrapped up in quilts, thinking about turning on the gas fire. For those of you following Maria (and why aren't you?), you know that she has been struggling with a cold. She hasn't mentioned it on her blog, but, the good news is that, she is all but over it. The cold (has finally) gone.

I have a cold!

My nose is blocked, I'm sneezing, that bit of skin, between nose and top lip, is sore. I have a cold. And, for those of you keeping score, it is 28 degrees C outside! It is t-shirt and shorts weather and I am in wrapped-up-in-a-blanket mode.

And it is brilliant!

I get to moan about the weather (and its effects) all day. It's brilliant being British!!!!

new and different things

One of the real joys of living in another country is discovering new and different things, things that I might not have ever discovered. Prime example: Taco Bell tacos are not real tacos! And,as much as I enjoyed a tray of Taco Bell tacos before, there is no way I am ever going to order/eat at Taco Bell again. I have tasted the real deal and there is no going back. Saturday night, we dropped the kids off back at their father's and, as we swang (swung?) back home, stopped of at La Unica. Eighty pesos purchased three carne asada (that's beef) tacos and two adobada (pork) tacos. These were stuffed with meat, guacamole, and salsa, wrapped in a freshly made soft tortilla. I was also given an empty bag which Maria filled with grilled onions, grilled chili peppers, slices of cucumber,  radishes, and lemon halves)*. Luvverly.

One of the joys of living with Maria is discovering new and different things, things that I might never have discovered. Prime example: books. I never feel guilty about buying books and reading books. There is never a moment when I suddenly say, I want to read and she looks at me with that whole there-is-a-lawn-to-mow/dishes-to-wash/tummy-button-fluff-to-weave look. She understand that there are moments that you just want to dive into a book and stay there. She has also opened my eyes to so many other books - can you tell I'm excited at the moment? I'm reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, a book I would never have picked up (she bought it), and I am loving it. Luvverly**.

One of the embarrassments joys of living in another country is explaining new and different things, things that are part of my culture that Maria has never discovered. Prime example: Triffids. I received an email from my mum, telling me that she had just finished Chocky - a John Wyndham novel - and it appeared that Maria had never heard of John Wyndham. More to the point (because I am pretty sure that 85% of the British nation hadn't heard of him either), she had no idea what a Triffid was. This amazed me. Maybe I'm wrong about this, maybe I just existed in circles who knew the term Triffid, but the idea that someone didn't know what a Triffid was, I found unbelievable (hell, even my spell-checker knows what one is!). This had to be rectified. I spent an hour, or so, trying to explain what a Triffid is/was. This didn't work. I downloaded a television series and sat her down in front of it. This was a mistake. Oh, sure she now knows what a Triffid is but I don't think she was really scared. Actually, she was horrified - but not by Triffids. I thnk she was more frightened by the acting/the plot/the haircuts/the blue eye shadow. Maybe I should have got her the book rather than a television series from 1981!

I now live in fear. What if she ever asks me: "What is Blake's Seven?". Now, that is something I will never be able to explain.

 

*this still excites me. The fact that you can fill an empty gallon plastic bag with as much free stuff as you want. I am that easily excited!

** and I just can't start to list the wonderful books she has introduced me to - although you should go read "The Dancer Upstairs", "The Life of Pi", "The Queen of the South", and I've stated to list them! Just go read something!

just the facts ma'am

The woman with the tiny hands turned to me and said:

I told my daughter bunnies and eggs came from England.

This doesn't rate up there with the daftest question I have ever heard (the prize for that goes to the Swedish person who asked Miguel: do they have potatoes in Mexico?) but it does give me the chance to lecture.

Mexico is a Catholic country, very Catholic. Recently a friend of mine revealed that his girlfriend is a Christian. This caused gasps of horror, people crossing themselves, and him being shunned for the rest of the evening. Now, to my understanding, Catholicism is just a branch of Christianity, a branch that believes in virgin births and transubstantiation. But here it is a whole different understanding. Christians are to be pitied and avoided. Christians are the people who come knock on your door. Christians are the people who try to convert you to...well, to believing in Christ. But, to this outsider, in Mexico Catholicism is based around the Virgin, the big J was just an after thought to the whole story. I call Maria, Maria because it's her name. Unfortunately it is also the name of 80% of the women in Mexico (and, to be honest I might be lying about that statistic, it is probably closer to 90%).  Everyone else calls Maria, Rocio - her middle name -  and that's pretty much the norm for all women in Mexico (or at least 80%+), they use their middle name.

However, come Easter you start to realise that this is a Catholic country.

Maundy Thursday the whole country shut down. Seriously, everything closed. And they have stayed closed for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. No-one is working. But they aren't partying (yet). Most people are going to church and then staying at home. Maria, who isn't the religious type, looks at me slightly bemused when I question this.

It's a man's death - why would you celebrate?

And she's right. If a whole country believes in the death and resurrection then for the Thursday, Friday, and Saturday there really is nothing to celebrate. Come Sunday, of course, it's time to party-on-down. Lent is over, fasting is over. The majority of Mexicans will go to mass in the morning and then ALL Mexicans will eat! Food! No chocolates, no hot cross buns, food - mainly meat because, let's face it, they have been depriving themselves of meat for over 24 hours (which is a lifetime to most taco eating Mexicans).

I've mentioned hot cross buns to Maria. Hot cross buns are luvverly. Slice them in half, lightly toast them under the grill, butter them - wonderful. Hell, they are even luvverly cold. But, every time I mention them she shakes her head in wonderment. At first I thought it was because they have raisins in them - and you really don't want to mention raisins in a conversation with Maria - but then it turned out it was the fact they have a cross on them. And that leads to the Bill Hicks quote:
A lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. You think when Jesus comes back he ever wants to see a fucking cross? It's like going up to Jackie Onassis wearing a rifle pendant.
But, in the long run, Christians have elected to choose the instrument of their saviour's death as the unifying symbol - how can we complain? So, it isn't too difficult to explain hot cross buns.

Bunnies and eggs becomes a little harder. It becomes a little harder when you have to explain to people that most (all) of the dates on the Christian calendar are arbitrary. Take the fact that's it's 2008. If the baby jee was born in Bethlehem because of a census, well that census was in 5 B.C. not 1 B.C./A.D. You see, the church made the dates up. (Try explaining this to a woman with tiny hands whose English is better than my Spanish, but isn't great). On the pagan calendar there were two really big parties - one of them was in the winter - a chance to party-on-down when it was cold, wet and miserable - the other was in Spring - when it was time to throw off all your clothes and get some pro-creating done! When the church decided to sell Christianity to the masses, they needed to convince people that they could still celebrate. So they went for: baby jee born in winter; grown-up J born again in Spring. And that's why bunnies and eggs at Easter. They are fertility symbols. Breed like a rabbit!

But why chocolate? asks my tiny handed inquisitor. This one is the tough one. I suppose it has a lot to do with breaking fasting. Shrove Tuesday (also known as Pancake Tuesday, AKA Fat Tuesday. AKA Mardi Gras) is the day before Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent - 40 days of fast and abstinence before Easter Sunday. It is supposed to replicate the 40 days the mid-life-crisis Jee spent in the desert before his entry into Jerusalem. The day before you go into fasting mode, Tuesday, the idea is to eat everything in the larder. For some reason that means pancakes. The only thinking I can come up with for chocolate is that, now the fast is over you can indulge. And what is more indulgent than Ferrero Rocher?

Anyhoo, that's as good an explanation as I can give. If you can do it better, feel free. Oh, and if you are going to rise to the challenge can I ask you to also explain one other thing that has always puzzled me:
Why do chocolate eggs taste so much better than a bar of the same chocolate?
Either way. Enjoy your Easter break and (just to annoy Blue Witch) don't forget there are only 276 shopping days until Christmas.

eyes wide shut

It's been an odd couple of days. We've spent a lot of time talking about racism, about Mexico, about Mexicans. Read this.

I love Mexico, I love Mexicans, I love the life I live. But, like some demented princess from a Disney film, it appears that I might be wandering through this life with a false perception. The ground is covered with rose petals, the birds are singing in the trees and everything is wonderful because I'm a fairy princess (this is an analogy - I'm not really a fairy princess and if I were, I would not choosing this moment to come out). Does this mean that everything I've said, written, about Mexico is a lie? Does this mean that when you turn up here you will discover a totally different world to the one I have described? Well, no, not really, because you're foreign, too. You're different, and will be treated differently to a Mexican. This idyllic world I have described is freely available to you, no extra charge, just make sure that you look foreign, speak foreign, act foreign. Life is grand.

Of course, the flipside is that I will never know the real Mexico because everyone treats me differently. But (except for two incidents, one in a bar and the other on the street) I have always been treated well.

We have a favourite restaurant, La Mandolino, I've mentioned it a couple of times on here, I rave about it constantly. Friends, inspired by my enthusiasm, have gone to the place and when questioned, after their visit, have been a little non-committal. Up until now we haven't really questioned their reasons but, in the light of what we have discovered in the last couple of days, we have started to pursue this. It appears that the reason they don't like the place is that the service is crap. They are ignored, orders aren't taken, food doesn't turn up, glasses go empty, finished plates remain on the table. This isn't the restaurant we eat in. We are met at the door, welcomed in, drinks are produced as we sit down (they remember our preferences), an ashtray appears, a basket of bread (that is changed often because the bread has cooled). They have started replacing our cutlery once we have eaten a course. When we finish eating we are left alone to drink and talk, we are never hurried out the door. A week ago we visited a bar and last Thursday we entered the bar again - now, this is The Tijuana Bar, the bar connected to the town's brewery. It copes with over a thousand people a week? As you sit in the bar you can see groups of visitors going round the brewery and then they enter the bar to sample the wares. It is busy, busy, busy. On Thursday, by the time we had sat down a diet coke was placed in front of Maria, an ice cold glass of beer in front of me, and we were informed that the guacamole was on its way. A week after our previous visit! They remembered us. True, I might have over-tipped the previous time but, even so, they remembered us. Or at least, as I am learning, they remembered me.

But what to do? Does this mean that I am going to live the rest of my life being treated as though I was special (and I don't mean special in that way that teachers talk about pupils as special)? Well, there is little I can do about it. And how do I feel about it all? Sad. It's not right. I am not better than anyone, I'm not special. I think that my friends are better than I, I think that Mexicans are much nicer people (as a race) than the English - I'm not damning a whole country there. But then, I have to pause, and wonder if my opinion is tainted because of the way I'm treated? There is no norm for me. I don't know what is the norm and that makes me a bit sad. I've also been frighteningly naive and probably unconsciously racist. As my awareness of the latent racism that exists in this country has been raised, I have realised that I have been incredibly unaware of my own racism - racism by omission. I have been guilty of "they all look the same". After a very long conversation on Thursday night, I spent a lot of Friday looking carefully at the children I teach. Children who I had (in my mind) labelled as "white" were, in fact, not. Children who I had classified as "not particularly Mexican looking" were suddenly Mexican. And, the most upsetting thing, suddenly I could see that the children, and I hope sub-consciously, divided themselves into groups on the playground. The whiter children stuck together, the more Indian looking children were apart. In the classroom there is a noticeable under-current, a different sense of confidence and superiority between the different children. And I hadn't noticed. It makes me feel sad. Sad that this exists, sad that it has taken me so long to really notice.

Will it change me? Yes, obviously. I hope it will change me for the better but, I fear that it will change me because some of the shine has been knocked off - the rose-tinted glasses are a lot clearer now. Can I change it? No, sadly. I will be a lot more careful in what I say, how I act in class, how I interact with the children. But there is little I can do to change something that every Mexican is born with and every Mexican lives their lives with.

As a wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve liberal I've spent a lot of time bemoaning the fact that I am treated differently, that I have no chance to know what it is like to be a real Mexican. In three years time, when I can apply for a Mexican passport, I will still be foreign. I will still be treated as "special". There is no escape, nothing I can do to change the bubble I live in.

Well, there is one way. Efraín has recommended a restaurant for me to visit. He tells me that the waiters will be rude, the service will be awful, the food will be cold, my order will be taken incorrectly and I will be treated badly. It is a restaurant in which I will feel like a Mexican! It's a French restaurant.

[Footnote: In a discussion, with La Directore about her project, when asked to name some of the "qualities I possess" she said the following:
One of your qualities is that you are English, whereas, one of my limitations is that I am Mexican.
Which, in retrospect, probably sums up this whole discussion in one phrase.]