The Nitty Gritty on Mexico City

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…