The Nitty Gritty on Mexico City

I did not think it was possible to love a place as much as I love Mexico City.  For years, I thought that New York City and Chicago were my favorite cities, but I was wrong.  It is still a bit too soon to confirm, but I think I have found a new home here.  How they live in D.F. is how I have always wanted to live: a slow pace, fresh juice and tortillas sold off the street, respect and kindness for everyone around you, warmth, affection, a deep connection to remembrance and history, color and beauty and music covering every inch.  I have barely seen any of this place (when one thinks of how enormous it actually is: approx. 1600 sq. miles with a population of 20,000,000) but I can’t wait to see every inch of it!

This week was grueling at school.  Learning a new language is so challenging!  Physical and personality descriptions, possessive adjectives, prepositions, interrogative adverbs, vocabulary, describe one’s family, relationships, clothing, numbers 1-1000, verbs, verbs, and more verbs, and then, of course, the totally new way I must pronounce each of these words!  Well, it’s overwhelming at times but generally, I am so pleased to be learning such a gorgeous tongue.  Especially now that I want to return for a longer stay, I think of each new word or conjugation as a small key that unlocks a small door, a small sentence becomes an opportunity to communicate and connect with incredible people.

Every afternoon, during my break between pronunciation and language, I eat at the student run, anti-capitalist, vegan “fonda”.  The restaurant offers a set daily menu that consists of a soup, vegetable-based entrée, salad, small dessert, and all the agua fruita (a delicious drink made of water sweetened with a little fresh fruit) you can drink.  This all for the USD equivalent of $1.50.  They are serious when they proclaim to be anti-capitalist.  It makes me sad to think of Evergreen’s Eggplant charging more than that for a cup of coffee… when I return I will be sure to relay to them what I saw on campus at UNAM.

This week was very special in Mexico as it marked the annual holiday “Dia De Los Muertos”, Day of The Dead.  This is a time when Mexican families pray for and remember their dead loved ones.  Often, a shrine is made in the family’s home for the deceased.  The shrine is an “Ofrenda”, and offers the loved one’s favorite things to eat and drink along with traditional items such as fruit, day of the dead bread (a sweet bread baked in the shape of a skeletal hand), and various cooked dishes.  I visited a village called Mixquic with a few of my friends.  There, we found a town transformed into a festival of flowers, food, and music.  The scent is the first thing I noticed when I stepped off the bus at the entrance of the festival, it was a rich combination of freshly fried and baked treats wrapped up in the sweet aroma of lilies, roses, and marigolds (the traditional flower for the day.  At the end of the road was the most beautiful cemetery I have ever seen.  It was small, very old, and rested on a hill next to an ancient looking church.  The space was completely filled with flowers and family members working hard at creating unique decorations for the graves.

I thought of my own family members who have passed away, most importantly my father, and how I would love to remember them on this day from now on.  I think the general consensus about death in the U.S. is that it is a miserable and sad experience.  We travel to gravesites occasionally with a bouquet and cry quietly as we thin of how much the person is missed, how sad or tragic the death was.  It would be so different to have a time and space set aside every year for everyone to come together and celebrate their deceased loved ones.  To go to a cemetery and see it filled with color and joy would be so incredible.  I am officially adding Dia De Los Muertos to my list of favorite holidays and I will always celebrate it.  I know it would make my dad really happy…

Well my first day in Mexico City, or D.F. (short for District Federal) was just as exciting as I thought it would be.  The flight was a breeze and when I arrived my new friend Wendy was late to meet me so I sat down and watched family and friends reunite after what looked like a long time.  The sliding glass doors would open and a passenger would emerge from an interview with customs, immediately greeted by a loved one.  Introductions were made to new children or spouses, tears fell and everyone was overjoyed.  I don’t think I have ever witnessed a scene quite like this at an airport before. Mixed in the group are a few gringos coming to Mexico City to transfer to other flights to Tulum or Cozumel, but mostly the passengers are Mexicanos carrying cardboard boxes and plastic bags for luggage.

I began to feel a little anxious sitting in the airport by myself.  I took a huge risk by coming to Mexico without knowing any Spanish.  Even though I knew that CEPE,the course I enrolled in at the University, would be immersive and most people learn very quickly that way, sitting at Benito Juarez airport all alone without even knowing how to ask for a taxi, I couldn’t help but feel like I had made a big mistake.

All feelings of fear or regret melted away once Wendy arrived with her husband, Carlos.  Immediately after meeting them, I knew that I had two people on my side that were going to help me if I needed it.  Wendy is the former roommate of my friend, Luke, who studied with CEPE last year.  He passed on her email address to me as a housing option, and although Wendy’s place was full, she totally reached out to me anyway and offered that I stay at her place until I find an apartment.  So kind.  I mean, how many people would do that for a total stranger?  I’m a little embarrassed to say I wouldn’t.  Wendy and Carlos’ generosity put into perspective my own selfishness.  I don’t know if it is because I am American or because I am so attached to the way I live and my routine, but if a stranger from another country emailed me for help when they arrived in the States, I would give them the number to a good hotel and wish them luck.  But after having been treated so well here in Mexico, I don’t think I could behave that way again.  One day in Mexico City and I already feel changed.  I feel more open to possibilities and in the future I want to make other people feel as welcome and comfortable as I have been made to feel here.

In the evening, Carlos’ mother, Bertha, and her boyfriend came over for dinner.  Carlos made Micheladas, which is Mexican beer mixed with chilies, limejuice, and hot sauce, with a salted rim.  Delisioso!  My new favorite drink.  Over dinner, the family and Wendy’s other roommates talked and laughed.  I sat with them and, since I had no idea what anyone was saying, just smiled.  Despite the language barrier, everyone made me feel very welcome and after a large meal and a couple micheladas, it was time to go to sleep.  Ileana, Wendy’s roommate let me sleep in her bed.

Day three sends me out of bed and straight to my first ride on the city’s Metro.  Outside of Wendy’s apartment is a bustling metropolis full of people coming and going, selling tamales and fresh jugo (juice), working construction and driving like madmen!  Anything you may have heard about the wild ways of the drivers in Mexico City is absolutely true.  There is no order, no respect for lanes.  In fact, new lanes are constantly being created or ignored, as are the traffic signals.  Total chaos.  But I kind of love it. It keeps me hyper aware of what’s going on, and I actually feel safer that way.  The Metro is clean and efficient.  During rush hours, there is a section of the train just for ladies and children to avoid any unwanted attention or harassment (I absolutely love this idea and wish we had it in the States).

After a short ride, I walk up the stairs to see my potential new landlord and her niece waiting for me by a newsstand.  She whisks us off in a taxi to her new enormous house that she bought to board female students.  So, in theory, the place was very nice: big furnished rooms, a nice kitchen, living room area, live-in maid (kind of awkward for me), and a garden, BUT, the catch is that I would be the only person there.  The only person except for the cleaning woman and her baby (And they live in a hallway.  Ten available bedrooms and they have to live in a hallway?  Not cool…).  So I had to decline.  I just didn’t picture my Mexico City experience being the queen of some weird, empty castle.  But the lady doth persist.  The landlady insisted that I look at her house instead.  She told me that I would love her home and I could live there until other students arrived at the empty house.  She would not take no for an answer, so I took another cab with her to her home where I was shown a room, her son’s former baby room covered in baby wallpaper and filled with unwanted toys from a long-gone childhood.  Uh, no thanks.  Oh, and there were about thrity parakeets living one room over shouting non-stop in Spanish.  Ay!  Caramba!  I would rather live on the street than share a home with this whacky woman and her flock.  So back to the home that I can’t really call home to continue looking for an apartment that feels increasingly out of reach.  And then I remembered Fabiola!  Yes, Fabiola would save me!  You see, although I had only gone to see two crazy ladies in person to discuss their unappealing apartments, I had spent countless hours on craigslist and other sites searching, emailing people, considering and rejecting dozens of other apartments.  Fabiola was one of the people who sounded both sane and like she lived in a cool place.  It didn’t hurt that she spoke perfect English either.

I had until 4pm to stop by her apartment in Roma, a neighborhood right outside of the huber chic Condesa.  When I arrived, I knew I struck gold.  I was greeted at the door by two adorable cats and the place was furnished exactly how I would want: contemporary, new modern, and the rooms were huge.  My bedroom is twice the size of any room I have ever had.  It has two lovely windows and art all over the walls.  Fabiola is my age and works as a librarian at an American School in the city.  She is very warm and so are the cats who immediately start purring and gently begging for my attention.  There is another roommate, Os, but his room s on the roof and apparently he is never home.  Sold!  I tell Fab that I can’t wait to move in and rush back to Wendy’s to get my things.  Wendy is appalled that I would pay so much for a room in a neighborhood “full of snobby Mexicans” whom I won’t want to hang out with.  “Fresaville” is what she calls it.  “Fresa” literally means strawberry in Spanish , but it is also means “snob” or “yuppy”.  Clearly, Wendy doesn’t know me that well.  I will take a snob over a parakeet any day.  I am a creature of comfort and if spending a bit more money means I get a room that I love and feel comfortable in and, best of all, I can stop looking for rooms, than I’ll take it.

Day nine.  I have officially completed my first week at CEPE.  It has been a fantastic experience so far.  The class is very small (only seven of us) and the maestro (instructor) is so patient and helpful.  I am in Basico Uno, the very first of CEPE’s twelce course language immersion program.  After only one week here, I am already considering returning for at least one more session if not more.  So far we have learned about the verb “ser”, or “to be”, and its uses.  It is specifically used to describe one’s apearance, nationality, and identification.  I suppose the verb to describe feelings and emotions will be explained in the future.  We also learned the Spanish words for many countries.  The United States is “Estados Unidos” and that means that I am referred to as “Estadosunidense”.  What a mouthful!  It makes perfect sense though.  Why do people from the United States think they can own “American”  when we are not the only America in the world.  I felt humbled by this realization and a little embarrassed, I try my best to be globally conscious and aware of how my culture can be oppressive or domineering but I somehow I overlooked this fact.

I was totally unprepared for how much work I would have to do in this class.  Not only is there twenty-five hours per week of Basico Uno plus fifteen hours per week of homework, but there was a surprise class added to my schedule that I did not know I had to take prior to my arrival.  Pronunciation and Vocabulary is an additional class that includes five hours of class per week plus three hours of homework.  So, not including travel time, which is a gruelling experience in itself, I already have a forty-eight hour per week schedule.  I don’t know how I will possibly make a film as well…