Celebrating Two Months in Mexico

I have been here for two months.  In some ways this feels like forever; in others, I cannot hardly believe it.

I have a weekly routine now, with people I see on a regular basis.  There's the baker at the panadería that I visit on a nearly-daily basis.  His bread is always so fresh - "recién salido del horno," as Dulce likes to say. The lady who works in the tortillería is extremely friendly, even when she's sold so many tortillas she has to wait for them to leave the tortilla machine to be able to serve her customers.  The police officer who guards my street at night always offers a hello, followed quickly, of course, with a "where are you going?"

In the morning, if I leave the house before 9, there is a man who acts as parking attendant/car-washer in the side street that leads up to my house.  The tamale lady at the entrance of the callejón near the parque and the tamale man near Santo Café are regulars along my journey to and from el Centro each day.  The little old flower ladies in the Plaza Baratillo always seem to be having the most exciting conversations, and there always seems to be a church bell chiming somewhere in the city.  In la calle Sangre de Cristo, there is always this police officer chatting up one of the many ladies who work in one of the street's many zapaterías, tiendas, cafés, and restaurantes.

After class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Becky and I hit up one of cafés that are sprinkled heavily throughout the city (although, truth be told, it's safe to say we know which are our favorites).  Lunch is at 2, although when I'm late, it's closer to 2:30, but no matter the time, it's always the sopa followed by the main dish. We usually drink agua de jamaica, but refresco is sometimes our guilty pleasure.  Then I'm off to my descanso while Dulce relaxes with her newspaper or las noticias on the tele.

Weekends are a special little time.  Although filled with homework this time 'round, weekends are designated "Explore Mexico."  Last week it was lucha libre, which was even better than it sounds.  In a month, it will be Cervantino, which is three weeks of a veritable cultural vomit.  Three weeks of música, teatro, baile, and arte inspired Miguel de Cervantes' masterpiece Don Quijote.

... Which reminds me of why I can't believe it's already been two months.  Everyday I go out, every day has its own routine, same as before, and everyday I discover something else, everyday I put something on my To-Do-Before-I-Leave list. "Oh, I've never noticed that callejón before!" "They opened a new panadería on this street yesterday." "I walk past this restaurant everyday, I should go in one day." For everything I can cross off my list, I add one or two more.  "There is a church at the top of that hill, how do I get there?" "Those taquitos smell delicious..." "The colors of that cluster of houses are pretty cool."

And, sometimes, it's painfully obvious I've only been here two months.  Like when everyone gets off of the bus on some indiscernible signal that this particular stop is the bus' last stop, and I sit there, wondering "what's going on here that everyone wanted to get off here?," looking the fool.  Or when someone asks me a question and I have no idea what is being talked at me.  Or when the waitress says their special today is lasaña, and I ask, "what is lasaña?," only to realize I know exactly what lasagna is. (Side note: her response was priceless: ¡cómo que no sabes qué es lasaña?, how do you not know what lasagna is!?)

I guess it's all part of the study-abroad, cultural immersion experience.  I'm just here, trying to act and talk like a born-and-bred Mexican.  I have my good days, to boost my autoestima, and my lasagna days, in case I get too content. It's like one of my professors once told me: "If ignorance is bliss, then knowledge certainly can't be."  Here's to three more months of experience to help my knowledge.

Attentamente,
Jessi