Morelia, February 1998
This is a re-write (consolidation, additions, etc.) of a handwritten journal.
Wednesday, 2/4—We’ve been in Mexico since Friday, in Morelia since Sunday afternoon. I met Gregg at the airport Friday afternoon, after waiting there, bags in tow, for more than two hours. I think he cleared customs at about six. Maybe it was closer to three hours, since I think it was around three that I got in.
I had to change planes in DFW, and all day the flights were early. A good tail wind, I guess. I met an interesting guy on the DFW to Mexico leg. Bryan. Late twenties. Works for the railroad, a traffic controller. He managed to get a three month leave of absence, unpaid, to study Spanish for three months in Cuernavaca. Something he’d been telling himself he’d do for quite a while. Spent a summer, or part of one, or maybe it was a semester, in Guadalara when in college. Not a good experience, in re to family. I guess they ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and fed the college students minimally from the fridge. He made it sound almost Dickensian. Said he remembered the dogs on the roofs in Guadalajara. And had written something about the walls. Turns out he was a journalism major in college (went to school in Missouri, but from Ft. Worth). Worked as a translator on a Taiwan English language paper for a while, then got the railroad job through his father because it paid more. Hoping to get reassigned in Mexico. Into Hunter Thompson and that new Rolling Stone guy, Irish name, I forget. Nouveau conservative. I told him about Greene.
He was getting picked up by the school at the airport. Evidently, they were late, since I saw him about an hour after we got in, still at the gate where international passengers get out through customs. I was waiting upstairs, at tables on a kind of balcony, in front of a row of fast food places, McDonalds, etc. Didn’t see him, tho, when I went down to wait for Gregg. While I waited, I changed some money and bought a taxi ticket. The reason the school was picking him up, or part of the reason, was the recent problems with taxis: muggings in them of American tourists. Everyone’s pretty paranoid.
I called to Gregg when I saw him come out of customs. An odd sensation to see a brother you haven’t seen for five years or more, in a strange place, even though you are expecting him. His hair is almost completely gray and he’s still a little more bald than me, tho three years younger. Looks good, tho. Slim. Plays tennis regularly. Hasn’t smoked for more than ten years. The strangest thing is to think of us as both in our 50’s.
The taxi ride was uneventful. Typically, tho, they have the selling of the taxi tickets figured out, but then when you walk outside it’s unclear who you are supposed to give it to. We ********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************d definitely friendlier and more helpful. A younger staff. Less stuffy. I asked the bellboy for agua purificada, and he said it was in the mini-bar, and said he’d go get a key and be back in five minutes. Didn’t show up. So after we unpacked, we went down and got it ourselves and a key for the safe. Then we went up to the bar and had a couple of beers. It’s on the roof, about eight floors up, so had a view of rooftops. Can’t say what we talked about. I think a mix of Gregg’s impressions so far of Mexico—had only been to border towns before—and details of his trip and preparations. In any case, it was good seeing him.
I had two places on my list, both within walking distance, one with music and one without. The one with music was first one we passed, and it looked pretty packed with people, so we went on to the next one, which was relatively not busy. Had a bunch of waiters hovering around. As always couldn’t really read the menu, had to guess at a lot of items. I had grilled white fish; Gregg had shrimp in a dark red garlic sauce. Both very good. We had some sort of appetizer that was very good too, but I forget what it was. And flan for dessert and cafe mexicana, which turned out to be with cinammon, not what I expected. I wanted, and never did get, the thick coffee topped with hot cream or milk.
Had a couple of brandies before going to bed, at Majestic bar, which was pretty full this time. Didn’t see a single American in the bar or restaurant. God knows what we talked about. I think I’d had enough to drink to launch into one of my Mexico raps, but which one I can’t remember.
Saturday—A little hungover, perhaps. Couldn’t find the Frommer restaurant, so went to a sidewalk cafe on the Zocalo, or facing it. There were at least two to choose from. Neither had been there on my previous visits. Just had coffee, juice, and pan dulce. Then we walked across the Zocalo to the National Palace, which was heavily guarded by soldiers and very busy with tourists. They have it blocked off except area for viewing murals. Part of the charm before was that they were just there, viewed and appreciated, but without much hullabaloo. This time you had to leave your drivers license at the entrance. Maybe twenty soldiers hanging around. Chiapas edginess. Usual Mexican style crush and confusion when a lot of people are involved. Not the serene atmosphere of before.
There seemed to be a tour guide at every mural, speaking in different languages, and I think one was a Scandanavian language. Wouldn’t know which. Hard, then, to really get into the murals.
Nonetheless: the number of people he packs into a picture is amazing, and the color, the kind of washed out or pastel tint, now fashionably Southwest. Original with Rivera? And does it realistically represent the color of Mexico? It seems to me that Freda Kahlo comes closer, but maybe she just mimics the colors that are there, while Rivera, at least in the Indian paintings, does something more impressionistic, especially in regard to the natural. The countryside, etc. The non-indian paintings at the Bellas Artes are darker.
The Cathedral, where we went next, was also packed. And full of permanent scaffolding, to keep it from sinking. Or falling apart, I guess, as it sinks. Packed with both tourists and worshipers. Even a sign about when tours could come, which no one paid any attention to, evidently, since we were early. Saw the black Christ. Noticed for first time (or don’t remember from before) the different Christs, Virgins, etc, in glass boxes, here and there. A place to kneel in front. Saw many of the devout praying to them, on their knees. Every time I go there, I see at least one person who seems very very serious, as if he or she had a terrible problem. Pleading? Interesting that a person would be drawn to such a public place, with a bunch of foreigners, for something so personal. Which may be part of why it seems to them they are doing something that may work: a sacrifice of their privacy. A willingness to kneel to a higher power in front of strangers.
Next, after going back to the hotel for a few minutes, we took a taxi to San Angel. Our driver, taking advantage of the current paranoia about taxis, offered to take us to Coyoacan, the Kahlo and Trotsky museums, and then on to San Angel for the bazaar, which was the original point of the trip. Said he’d be willing to wait around until 3:30, which gave us a couple of hours to eat lunch and walk around San Angel. Gregg said he relaxed as soon as we struck a bargain, since we didn’t know how we were going to get a taxi back. I guess I did too, since we were too green to really know how to do it, but I didn’t enjoy the museums as much as before because I felt the taxi waiting. Didn’t rush us, but still couldn’t forget he was out there.
The FK had been closed when I went last time, so this was first I’d seen of it. It’s very blue, no doubt about that. From the entrance, you climb a few steps to the rooms at the front and to the left of the courtyard. First room has a few FK paintings and a couple by someone else of her. Don’t recall any in particular, but most are the painful self-portraits. After that is a series of rooms that were the living quarters, presumably kept to resemble how it was when she was alive, including her studio at the back. A lot of Communist stuff: pictures of Stalin and Marx, etc. You do get a sense of how she, and I suppose artists in general, surround themselves with drawings and color. They seem to live for a sort of visual language, of which I am as ignorant as of Spanish. Shop/cafe seemed to have some interesting books, but no curios—buttons, postcards—that I found interesting enough to buy. Lots of skeleton stuff: tableau, like you see in Michoacan. Skeletons having dinner, at weddings, dances, etc. And some interesting ones in coffins. Sitting up in. Poking heads out of.
The Trotsky museum didn’t have the same magic for me as last time: I was exhausted, having walked all the way from the subway stop; and alone. And there was hardly anyone else there last time. This time, more people and Gregg was with me. And the taxi was waiting. The most interesting thing to me this time was a picture showing how it was virtually out in the country at the time. FK’s place too, though it was closer to the center of town. But in any case, Coyoacan was a separate town with dirt roads. Must have been like heaven: perfect weather, few people.
The place the taxi driver recommended on the main square in San Angel was okay but not great and it took up more than half our time to have comida. Ordered quail and I think they served it without the breast. Very scrawny and greasy. We were just inside, could see the street and patio, and it was nice to sit there and drink beer. Always a lot of action, of course. Then we walked up and down the narrow cobble stoned streets and tried to see the mansions behind the walls. Lots of money there.
On the way back to the Majestic, the taxi driver got very chummy. I wanted to practice my Spanish and he, as it turned out, wanted to take us to the Pyramids Sunday morning. Meanwhile, we talked about learning Spanish versus learning English and he even said he’d give me his address and I could write him and we’d be friends, etc., and he said he’d take us to the Observatorio bus station in the morning, and we set a price and a time. I told him, though, that we didn’t have time to go to the pyramids, and I thought I detected a certain coldness when we said good-bye. I asked him his name and he seemed surprised, which surprised me since we were going to be friends, right?
For the evening, we went to the Zona Rosa. Lots of action in the clubs and lots of hucksters roaming the streets trying to get you to go to the strip tease shows. Went to a place called the Fonda del Refugio, and ate enchiladas with green sauce and a filete of something that was a lot like beef stew. Enchiladas so hot we couldn’t taste the stew until about halfway through. All good. Waiter looked like an intellectual: tall, longish hair, hooked nose, deep-set eyes. Or maybe just Spanish, patrician. Mostly tourists there, but I think one couple was French. One guy by himself, reading a book. Table behind us, the only Americans.
After we ate we walked around a bit looking for a place with music, a hotel bar. First one we went to didn’t have music that night. Second one had a piano player that was too loud and totally pop, not jazz, and the place had a kitchy sixties look, all black and beige and chrome and mirrors and virtually a part of the lobby. Kind of a hooker looking waitress. Closed down after we’d had one drink, but we were ready to go home anyway. It was ten or eleven. Got the bellboy at the hotel to get us a cab, from out front, and the driver had a companion. Went back via the Reforma, so Gregg got to see it. The statues and fountains and such. Actually, before we went to dinner, or maybe after, we saw a film crew at one of the statues on the Reforma, and a big crowd around them. Some guys doing something without shirts on. Karate maybe. Like it might be a music video.
Sunday morning—Breakfast at the same place, then off to the Templo Mayor. We were able, in fact, to tour the temple and the museum, the Palace de Bellas Artes, and walk briefly through Alameda Park before it was time to return to the hotel and check out. Seeing the Temple for the second time was a little but not much more enlightening than the first (with Tom). I need to read about it. Saw the snake a little more clearly. Paid some attention to system of agriculture—the creation of little islands for the corn. Same goes for the Bellas Artes. If I’m going to write about either, the thing would be to get a book about them and use that as a foundation for my experience. Experience-wise, I was impressed by the space and light and color. To what extent is it Mexican? No new insights on the murals. The park was perhaps as it has always been on Sunday afternoons: full of people, all sorts of people, having a leisurely good time. Saw two snake charmers, one dressed as a clown who was really working the crowd. He said something to Gregg, asked him where he was from, since he was clearly the only gringo in the crowd (I’d moved on, to a safe distance).
We got down to the lobby with our bags and paid our bill well before one, and I went out several times to find our driver, but he never showed up. At ten after one, we got another taxi. Cost ten pesos more than the quote from our Saturday driver. Got there in perfect time, tho, and despite lack of easy communication, got on a bus that was leaving in fifteen minutes. ETN. Very friendly woman selling tickets. We got sandwiches and a drink as we boarded; seats like first class airplane seats, with a leg rest, big windows; the TV going most of the time, which was the only pain in the butt.
Showed some tenth rate movie and then two episodes of a situation comedy. All dubbed from English. The countryside is all hills, all the way, some grassy, others covered with pine and cactus, huge cactus in places, and some sort of oak, perhaps. Road is excellent most of the way, though with a lot of tolls. Saw many cows grazing in the corn stubble. Saw a huge shallow lake, looked like they were harvesting rice or something in part of it. Need to check on that. It was nearer Morelia than Mexico City. A lot of factories in Toluca. The bus ticket was less than $20, and took us four hours.
We got in at around 6PM and took a cab (for a dollar) to the homestay house. Driver didn’t know exactly where it was—seems typical in Morelia. “Priv.” in front of street name means “private.” So the house is at end of a cul-de-sac off the main street. Painted bright blue, big number 72 on the front. Senora Nunez answered the door, and then Sr. Guerra came out. Both very friendly and accomodating. Showed us our rooms, asked if we wanted to see the school. We said after we unpack. Gregg’s room was in the back, mine in front. His a little bigger with a view of the garden and a double bed. Mine with two single beds, a view of the street, and a balcony. His was painted blue; mine pink. Obviously the room of a little girl, with stuffed animals. Mine turned out to be a disadvantage because it got colder, and it was un-seasonably cold the first week. No desk except a small one for phone in hall. I adjusted to all that pretty quick.
I’d thought they were offering to take us to the see the school, but when we came down after unpacking, it seems we were expected to walk there by ourselves. And it was getting dark. By the time we got to the school, it was closed, so Gregg couldn’t see it, but got to see the outside at least and setting. Sr. Guerra took us to the corner, and we talked about food and eating times and we made it clear we wanted to eat “mexicana.” Tho it took some convincing, he finally got it. Or finally believed us. When we got back from the walk, they had tequila and lime juice and cheese pieces waiting for us. Had nothing themselves, but while Gregg and I partook we got to know each other. They have three grown children, one of whom is still in college; one an architect; one (the daughter) works in personnel for Mexicana airlines. Sr. G is retired from Pemex, the oil company monopoly in Mexico, he was an accountant, and we found out later he is now working for a local beer distributor, perhaps through family connections. For twenty some odd years he lived in Mexico City and commuted back on weekends. Lived near Chapultapec Park. He and his wife met in college, thought they’d never see each other again when he got a job in Mexico City, but then saw each other again when he came home one weekend and kept going together. He’d very much into Frank Sinatra. Gregg and I brought down pictures and I told them that Kate was getting married on the 14th and we had to leave on Friday morning the 13th. Then they gave us sandwiches and tea and we went up to our rooms.
Monday--We had desayuno at 7:30 because we wanted to get to the school at eight and get everything arranged. No problems. We got our receipt for full payment and Gregg got his tutorial assignment and I got into an intermediate class. Actually, just me and a guy named Richard from Maryland who works in computers for Social Security. He’s a lot better than I am and I have trouble following the conversation, but at end of first day he said no problem about asking her to slow down. We asked in conversation to learn about history and politics of Mexico. Zaire is conversation teacher; Diana is grammar. Both going to law school. I asked to learn more about estar and ser and para and por in grammar.
For supper and breakfast we had sat at a table height counter in kitchen facing the wall. Kitchen is just wide enough to turn around in and stove and cabinets on other side. Sra serves us from behind. I was not thrilled with that arrangement, but got used to it, especially since comida (the main meal, served at 2:30 or 3 in the afternoon) was served in the dining room, very nice table setting, and three to four courses. I was cheered up about that as soon as I noticed table set when we returned from school.
I’m not sure what we did Monday afternoon, but we may have rested after comida, then walked back to school at five for conversation, which they didn’t have. And we might have, then, gone to La Libreria for coffee. Or maybe we walked back through the park, or both.
Tuesday—At some point the first two days, I talked to Norma, my conversation teacher from before. Bibi had thought at first I wanted tutorial, so had me assigned to her. She kidded about that, how I’d lost my big chance, and said I’d lost weight. She had too, she noted. She was not going with us to Patzquaro for weekend because she was taking the college kids to Puerto Vallarta. Thought I’d talk to her again, but didn’t get the chance. I was wondering why she wasn’t married, since she’d been madly in love three years ago with an American guy down there to study for priesthood. I’d met him, thought he was a prick, so wasn’t surprised. But neither of us mentioned it, of course, in our brief chat. Can’t remember anything else about Tuesday.
Wednesday—Juanita, a sixtyish woman with curly hair from Minnesota showed up in class, and she knows less Spanish than me, which was the final straw for Richard, and I can’t blame him. If it had been just him and me, we could have worked it out. In fact, I was afraid Juanita would hold me back, but I’ll wait and see. About Richard, tho, it has to be said that he didn’t try very hard to make it work. And he and his wife have a track record: room in first house they went to was too small, and it probably was, but he wasn’t overly polite about it Monday morning. School changed it promptly. And the hotel they went to wasn’t up to their standards, which made me really suspicious, especially since Jack and I had stayed there three years ago, the Soledad, and it was fine. Rooms plain but clean and attractive enough. Courtyard beautiful. And of course they couldn’t find a good restaurant, etc.
Thursday—A Mexican holiday, the 5th of February, Constitution Day. Went to Sr.G’s nephew’s house for comida. An odd experience, since the style blended elements of chic and banal. Arturo, the nephew, is building a new house. They are still working on it. In fact, he had to move in to get it finished, and it’s still not, since the workers stopped working at a certain point when he wasn’t there. A suburban house, in the foothills with a great view of the city, but in the Mexican style. Stucco, painted a bright color, a wall around it, of course. Lots of stone and tile and iron railings, etc. Black tile floors, very shiny, many paintings on the wall. Has a roommate, I think they are gay, and a maid that has been with him for ten years, named Lolita. My general impression was that parts of the house were nice but in general it was overdone. And of course the whole area around there looks in total disarray, with some houses finished, others barely started and so on, but looking much more chaotic than a new development would in the US, in keeping with the Mexican tendency to not really care what things look like on the public side of his house.
We were greeted, of course, very effusively, as if we were long lost best friends or relatives. Also there was Luis’ sister, who has Alzheimer’s, but not too advanced, apparently. She said very little, but seemed to make sense, tho hard to tell since it was all in Spanish. Luis was the only one of the group who spoke much English. Our hosts asked all the usual questions, in a mix of Spanish and English, and we tried to answer in English, as we drank beer, and as the painters carried their ladders by the sliding glass doors in the back. Extreme stone and tile and stucco on inside. The nephew seems very macho, slick black hair combed straight back, fairly big and okay looking, I think, with that Mexican cockiness. His companion is a bit effiminate—sells perfume for a living—somewhat swishy, probably more so in non-family company, gets very excited when telling a story. They are world travelers. Have been to northeast, including Cape Cod, and all over Europe and South America.
We had appetizers while we drank beer; soup, I forget what kind, and then a chicken leg and thigh for main course. It was okay. The roommate helped Lolita a lot. Lolita complains or talks back and Arturo chides her good-naturedly. She comes on as feisty, she’s built small, but she’s ugly as a mud fence. Not real short, but reminds one a little of a miniature pug-like dog. Dessert? I forget. But coffee was instant, with hot water served in cups and the jar passed around. And there was a bottle of brandy in the center of the table that was offered to everyone. The pair evidently visited all the art museums in Europe; went to Harvard just to take an art course. But roommate said he was just interested in collecting art, not doing it.
Friday—I wasn’t too prepared after comida of yesterday. Also had found out Thursday night that Kate will not be married on Valentine’s Day. Forgot my grammar homework, and now that I think of it, I must have interviewed my hosts Thursday morning about Constitution Day. They were very informative and very definite about what they thought, which in general was that the Constitution of 1917 is a great document but the politicians have screwed it up by adding so many amendments. I have a more complete summary in Spanish elsewhere. Anyway, in grammar we went to La Librerria and I found out they have chocolate and I gave my homework orally. Did a pretty good job too, I think. Juanita had misunderstood the assignment completely and wrote a report on her family. Diana doesn’t seem to have a coherent plan for rest of time, so I decided to try to devise one myself. In conversation we talked about the Aztecs and the years of Spanish rule, in keeping with the plan to cover Mexican history. I suggested we read before we talk. Still having trouble with comprehension.
Diana talked about chile rellenos, gave her recipe, as did Juanita. I told them about Karen’s love affair with Matt’s, and that they had raisins, uvas pasadas. Coincidentally, we had rellenos, stuffed with ground meat and cheese, for comida, and cut up soft tortillas in a cream sauce to start. I told our hosts about Kate and that we could stay through Friday. It’s all we talked about at comida and I thought the Sra was going to cry. At la cena we asked them to go with us Sunday to futbol and comida at someplace like Villa Montana and then to a bullfight if there is one. The Sra will probably just go for the comida.
Saturday—Went to Patzquaro. Met Patti, the guide, and Felicidad and Juanita, fellow students, at the school at nine and walked to the bus station. Felicidad, who knows what her real name is, has been in Costa Rica for several months, so knows Spanish pretty well. Couldn’t quite figure out what she’s doing out of the country. From Pittsburgh, apparently worked for or as an optician. Thinking about taking a job in Brownsville. Sent by company to learn Spanish to be transferred to a Spanish speaking place in States? Got laid off and is talking to other companies about that? Not sure. Turned out to be much too enthusiastic and loud for my taste and pretty self-absorbed. We had to wait a few minutes on the bus before we took off. A nice enough bus but nothing fancy. The driver had a huge crucifix on the front window, with a plain blue tie, like would be part of a uniform, next to it, already tied, hanging over the rear view mirror. A man from a union on strike tried to sell candy. Another man, retarded perhaps, also tried to sell candy. A man with a guitar and his little boy, 4 or 5, got on at one stop, and he sang a couple of songs for tips. Juanita, who was sitting in front of us, talked to him some, while he was waiting to get off. He lived in California for a while, worked with horses on a ranch. I suspect that this was a way to pick up a little extra cash on Saturday morning.
The man who takes the money pulled the bus out of the parking space and then the driver got on. They stop at several places in town and then for just about anybody on the side of the road, though I think there are designated stops. On the way, I saw a cow grazing on a lawn in front of wall of a nice house. Not really part of their lawn, but looked as well-kept as one. Old man on a chair, watching it graze.
We went to Santa Clara de Cobre first and saw them making the copper stuff, big fire and bellows and big hammers pounding it out. Lots of nice things. Felicidad was of course extremely excited by it all, even though it was her third time to come. Bought a bunch of stuff. Gregg bought a few things, and I got a small cross. Took pictures out front, of the store and the mountains in background, and the dirt road. The house across the road had a cow in the backyard. People walked by carrying big metal milk containers. Dogs on the roof of house cater-cornered. Felt like a mountain town. Reminded me a little of Colorado. Brisk breeze. Rolling country. Wide streets. Mostly a poor feel, though rural. A shaggy dog at copper place, who had his place next to the kiln. Water bowl and a few chicken bones. Kids, actually the girls who worked there, were playing with him when I took picture out front.
The main plaza and church have that same wide open, semi-desolate feel to them. Lots of pickups and cowboy hats. And serapes.
In Patzquaro saw the usual stuff: the old churches, etc. Have to admit that the one with the Virgin, arms out, was pretty impressive, and also had paintings of children of the time up in the rafters, along the side. A something about the train of the Virgin, and walking under it, and beadwork on the wall behind her, and miracles. And there was a wedding going on in another one; and a kid, a teenager, gave us a short recitation, for a tip, of course, of the history of this place that housed artisans. One old lady said to be last one to design plates in a certain way: rubbing powdered dyes on them. But Patti was in a hurry, and Felicidad’s enthusiasm was irritating. First and last tour I’ll ever take.
Gregg, Juanita, and I went to El Patio on the main square and had a great lunch. Juanita ate just a plate of something, pig skins, I think, along with some incomprehensible explanation about not used to eating much at lunch. She can be amusing, but also irritating. Has some real dumb spots. But generally a pleasant person. Had some serious problems with her son, spending all her money, but I guess that’s over. Had to tell her about Kate, so we traded kid stories after comida, while in the park, waiting for Gregg to take pictures of the churches we’d hurried through earlier.
Gregg and I did a real comida, with assorted appetizers: fried white cheese; pork skins in a hot sauce; crispy fried fish, like smelt; and guacamole. Put the fish on a tortilla and slathered it with guacamole. Then we had Tarascan soup, a creamy broth with tortillas floating in it; and then we had salmon-like (pink) trout from Lake Patzquaro, since they had no white fish. And flan and coffee for dessert. All very interesting and good.
Bus trip on way back noteworthy for dynamics between bus driver, ticket-taker, and people he picks up on side of road. No way to officially keep track of all the money. Once the ticket taker got off, which he did before we left town, the driver seemed willing to stop for just about anybody and take them as far as they wanted. Very unofficial, no doubt, price negotiable.
Everyone said thank you to the driver as we filed off the bus in Morelia.
For la cena we had fresh warm churros and chocolate. Mm, mm, good. We were exhausted, of course.
Sunday—I have a complete description of the soccer game and Villa Montana elsewhere.
Monday—I have nothing, remember nothing. Must have been pretty tired, though.
Tuesday—Gregg and I went shopping after comida and had a beer at a cafe across from the park. Then we went to the concert with Luis. I have a description of the building elsewhere, in Spanish. It’s a very beautiful old building, and I especially liked seeing the organ player through the big window, a little lower than the sidewalk, no screens. It was just about dusk. Everyone in the audience for the concert could have been from the US, in regard to appearance. Like people at universities, except maybe more consistently smartly dressed. Luis was proud of the building and the culture, I think. Paid for the tickets, had it all figured out. Served us la cena himself when we returned.
Wednesday—Went to Taesa to confirm my ticket change. Did okay doing it in Spanish. In afternoon, I stayed home after comida while Gregg went shopping. I’m enjoying the routine, and I like to study in the afternoon and doze off if I feel like it, tho I don’t much. Mostly I translate the articles and write the narrations. And study grammar along the way.
Thursday—The sabrino and friend and mother came again, along with the Sra’s sister, who, from yesterday, we know was having problems with a tenant. She does the student thing too, but also has an apartment building, and she found out a new tenant is some sort of fence for stolen merchandise. A lawyer who also lives there told her he was a character known to police, had been in jail, etc. So she’s trying to get him out before she gets into trouble. Maybe more to it than that; hard to tell, since I didn’t understand most of the Spanish.
This time the visit seemed more like a social obligation. The sabrino and friend left by taxi soon after we ate, before we even left the table. The talk was about trips to Europe, the Sra’s sister has been, and different ethnic foods. They like French cooking, of course. Friend was funny about Spaniards being loud and direct, the stewardesses on Iberia, and some story about a waiter getting pissed at a diner. I can see these two young Mexican gay guys tooling around Europe, applying their enthusiasm to it.
Pozole was served, and it’s the best soup I have ever had, I’m not kidding. The whole ceremony around the table of passing the plates and piling it on was great. I have recipe from the Sra.
Friday—Gregg and I went shopping before comida. I got what I needed, and he went back to look for something for Rob after comida, and I met him at the sidewalk cafe at six. Drank three beers each, our most since the first night. A farewell affair. Our conversations there ranged wide: from our jobs to our hosts, learning Spanish, reactions to the culture in general. I told Gregg he was a good traveling companion and it was good we were simpatico about Mexico, but that I also got a kick out of traveling alone.
Saturday—Got up at three and Luis took us to airport. Long wait for me, til 8, but everything went smoothly and it was interesting. A clear style distinction between those on my flight, to Mexico City, and other flights, most of which were headed north. Not a prop jet. Turned out to be a big one. Late. Then I found my flight to DFW was canceled, got almost as good a one thru Miami, then temporarily lost last half of ticket when tried to call Karen. American rep was great, and me and kid went to look for it, found it by phone. Then in Miami, long time to get luggage, and at customs. Had to go through agriculture thing, hadn’t declared food, but they didn’t open bags. Have this monitor gizmo. Immigration snotty about not having passport; didn’t but could have asked for birth certificate right away. Ass holes.
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