Mexican Family Crisis or: an Adventure in Language

A lot of our time in Mexico will be spent on buses, as Mexico is a much larger country than our previous destination of Panama.  But I really enjoy riding the buses about.  It's like having a personal picture window to a beautiful feature film of the country.

Our bus ride to Oaxaca was particularly beautiful, as we left the metropolitan center of the gargantuan Ciudad de Mexico, making our way through the increasingly poor areas on the fringes of the megaopolis.  The scenery changes completely to a very Montana-like landscape, large conifer covered hills with occasional snow-capped peaks towering over the sunny valley that our bus rambled through.  Eventually, our elevation decreased enough and we were cruising through a breathtaking desert scene.

Whatever it is, Mexico has a hold on me.

It reminds me a lot of the desert Southwestern US, of Arizona and New Mexico, and so perhaps it is for nostalgic reasons I feel so drawn to this country.  Perhaps Mexico´s dry air and cool nights have provided me with a much needed escape from the stiffling heat and humidity of Panama.  Perhaps it is the Dia de Muertos celebrations that have captivated me, with their brightly colored altars and lavishly dressed skeletons, at once offering a fascinating juxtaposition between a vivacious life and the chilling inevitability of death.

Whatever it is, Mexico has a hold on me.

We started our Mexican journey in the city of Queretaro, which is situated about 3 hours by bus, northeast of the City.  A quaintly colonial town, its down town is a beautiful collection of cobblestone streets, old churches, and not a single building over two stories.  The architecture has a very Spanish feel to it, and the colors are mostly muted greys and creams and reds.  It has an impeccably clean downtown, filled with fancy restaurants, cafes, bars, and street vendors line every walk selling snacks, jewelry, and textiles.  When we first arrived, we walked around for hours searching for a hostel, and after no luck, finally splurged on a cheap hotel room.

Our other two nights in Queretaro we stayed with Jon´s old host mom, Gisela, whom he lived with last summer while he was working for the university there.  Her house, although at its widest is no more than 15 feet across, literally looks directly down onto one of the city´s main plazas, a plaza which eminates history, as the constituion was signed there in 1917.  Our room at Gisela´s house offered us a little balcony with a view right into this plaza, and was certainly a nice contrast to the shoebox we splurged for the night before.

Gisela was extatic to see Jon, and graciously let us jump right into life with her.  She took us to the flea market, which was really more like a giant garage sale, and then to a little town which sells nothing but pile after pile of clothes which didn´t pass American inspections.  She even took us to her sister´s house, which was a jump into Mexican life for me, and a perfect introduction to the country.

By the time we arrived with Gisela´s son, Issac, Gisela and her sister, Connie, had already polished off a few bottles of cerveza.  Connie´s son and daughter decided to make a run to the store for a few more, however, they promptly return to the house to inform us that the car, which was parked in the street outside the house, had been hit by another car.

This might be a good time to remind you that I don´t speak Spanish.  I can understand it alright, I´d say about 80%, but constructing coherent sentences?... forget it.  I´m totally content being a fly on the wall, silently working on my comprehension.  The worst is when someone notices the gringo girl in the corner.  As soon as they start talking to me, my brain freezes.  Comprehension level drops to single digit percentages.  Responses to questions are a stammered, French-English combination with an awful mimicked Spanish accent.  My eyes glass over.  My body won´t move, like if I stay still or pretend that I didn´t hear, they´ll forget they were talking to me.  I look at Jon for a translation, with that look of frantic desparation in my eye, but he gets a kick out of it all, and leaves me to the wolves.  He just looks back at me with a smirk and a shrug that says, "Buena suerte, amiga".

So here I am, in the middle of a Mexican family crisis.  There are around 8 people living in this little house.  Gisela´s sister Connie is the matriarch, with four of her children residing there, two of whom have spouses, and one couple has 3 kids.  With the added chaos of the accident, plus Gisela, Issac, and us two gringos, the house becomes a river of movement, people in and out of doors and rooms, out to the street to survey the damage or chat with la policia, to the kitchen for a cerveza refill or for a bite of the dinner that was prepared to eat together but which was never realized, to the bathroom, to the sitting room, or to the courtyard to play with the dog or the kids.  I did alright for awhile, but after a few hours, my brain hurts.  It´s plum fried out.

We actually headed home fairly early by Mexican standards (around 11pm), and despite the loud bands entertaining the throngs of people in the square a stone´s throw from our balcony, I am out hard in a couple of moments.

We only spent 3 days in Queretaro, as Sunday came around, we decided to head back to the city.  On Sundays, most museums in Mexico City have free admission, and being the budget travellers we are, that seemed like a good plan.