We walked to the Jardin Sunday morning because that’s the best day for people watching. There are fewer cars, which make negotiating the narrow streets more pleasurable. The faces are more relaxed and open than during the week, with easy smiles and more frequent greetings. On our walk down into town we took the upper road which tracks past the large haciendas and San Miguel’s version of trophy homes to the Lavanderia, “washing place”, where several of the wash baths were occupied with women scrubbing their clothes in the community tubs. This area is also used for artists as a sales venue. They were just setting up their displays. We talked first to Stephen, looking for details on how we might participate. It turns out the rules are simple: show up, set up, SELL. No fees or sign-up required. A visual artists’ street busker confab. Stephen had nice photos, some of which he painted up in his own inimitable style. He said we should bring our stuff down and we very well might. Stef had drifted over to Carlos, a tall fellow about my age. He does monoprints and some of them were very nice, sort of like Modigliani; simple, elegant faces. Other pieces were more harsh, nice work though… a self-taught artist, he has arranged to teach monoprint making at a resort near Puerto Vallarta. He wanted to know if we had the information on all-inclusive resorts but we couldn’t help him there. When I found out he spoke English and Spanish the wheels started to turn. A couple weeks previous I had picked up a few alternate greetings from a guy we met in the Jardin. Instead of the well-worn “Buenos dias” I now have a few other choices, like “Como vez?” (sort of hard to translate, maybe “What’s the time?” but not literally like “Que hora?”), and “Que haciendo” (“what ‘cha doing?”), and “Que dices” (“whatta ya say?”). The one I liked was “Que onda” which our jardin friend a few weeks back couldn’t really translate. I asked Carlos about learning “Que onda” and what would I respond if someone said it to me. He said, “onda” means “wave”, so you’re kind of saying “what's the next wave…dude?” He suggested “Todo baja controlo” for an answer. That’s a good one: “Everything’s under control”.

Well we’ve had to deal with big changes during the previous five weeks. Our personal schedules were turned inside out, putting all the emphasis on our own abilities to manage time now that we’re no longer subject to company time. I’ve also mentioned to Stef that I feel like we’re in the midst of our own little sociology experiment here. In high school we had a sociology teacher who turned the class into an experiment. “Do what you want” he told his class. So they all basically ran wild until the administration put a stop to it. That’s sort of what this feels like. But we’d better behave. We don’t want Principal Fred G. Meyers to have to come to our door and tell us to knock it off.

We made arrangements to live here for six months and of course we loaded that prospect with tons of idealistic suppositions, sort of utopian even. Well, now that set of assumptions has had its comeuppance, as reality is a stern taskmaster over those idealistic little “ninos”. “A sojourn in Mexico” is both way more ordinary then I’d imagined in many of the day-to-day details and much more interesting and challenging in ways not predicted. I think we also both just realized that our arrangement here constitutes spending a heck of a lot more time together than in our previous USA existence. I’m not sure why that’s a huge surprise but it is. And that is a good thing since I enjoy spending lots of time with Stefanie. I think any couple that really enjoys being together will pursue more of a good thing if given the opportunity. Sort of: “that was fun, now let’s try it for 24 hours a day for a few months!”. Which is a bad thing since that much time together can make us both crazy. So now we’ve refined our strategies and created sensitive, timely separations. How can I love you if you won’t go away, right? Also, the only way to get to those excellent reunions…

Todo baja controlo.

— Dave

I always have liked a challenge – difficult jobs (make that impossible, at times) and subjecting my less-than-quantitative brain to getting an MBA, for example. Trying to learn Spanish with a hearing impairment along with giving up my day job and moving to a new country obviously weren’t enough, so I’ve added a new dimension to my life down here and have taken up teaching. In which I have absolutely no training.

By the time we’d barely unpacked I decided it would be nice to get involved in a volunteer project of some sort that would connect me more to the community and give me an opportunity to meet people while using some of my latent brain power. That first week I noticed an article in La Attención, the English/Spanish weekly newspaper here, about the Biblioteca looking for individuals to volunteer to teach English in their new fall classes. Specifically, they were looking for substitute teachers. I mulled things over for a few days, but even with some sleep it sounded like a fun way to get involved. I’ve spoken English all my life, plus they’d be speaking English so I would be able to understand them, right?

Toward the end of August the program coordinator held an orientation meeting for the volunteer teachers and substitutes. Everyone in the room, with the exception of myself and another person, had past experience teaching English as a Second Language (ESL). Some had international experience. I began to worry. We did a few practice exercises and one of the teachers who has taught in many countries throughout the world, gave some pointers and ideas for teaching ESL. I continued to worry. But somehow my optimism went into override and I volunteered to substitute for one of the teachers who would not be back in San Miguel until early October. “Nothing like the present,” I rationalized and found myself raising my hand.

So now I have a classroom of 13 beginning level students (10 of whom regularly attend) ranging in age from 12 to 25. We’re into our third week starting Tuesday, meeting twice a week. During the first class I explained to them as best I could, including broken Spanish, that I have a hearing impairment. They looked a little panic-struck – probably wondering how a deaf person could understand them well enough to teach them English – but upon seeing my processor and being assured that it helped me hear, they seemed to relax. Introductions were interesting and felt like we were in free-fall at times. Not to over-generalize, but Mexicans can be quiet and shy, especially in situations with a person they view with respect. Top that with the fact I was now making them speak in a language they were terrified of, and I quickly found myself struggling with every word to plausibly understand what they were saying. Miraculously, we managed to make it around the room with each person saying their name and one thing about themselves.

It has gotten better. No one sits frozen in their seats anymore with a petrified look on their face. We’ve made it through colors, the conjugation of “I am,” and the use of “have and has” as well as possessive adjectives. Gee, I’m even re-learning what all this grammar stuff is called! I’ve learned that cruising the room as individuals speak helps me understand them better. They seem to more readily abide my requests for repeats, and last week I felt totally triumphant when I understood someone say their favorite animal was a “caballo.” (That’s a horse – which I quickly informed them.) My big issue now is coming up with fun ways for them to learn this stuff besides the exercises that are provided in our book.

Time will tell how well my charges do through my efforts to instill in them the basics of beginning English. Betsy, the regular teacher, returns in mid-October. Her experience no doubt makes her a more relaxed teacher, but I’m glad I’ve plunged in and am trying this added adventure. Besides, what better chance to really get to meet some of the native San Migelans?

— Stef

The town’s center was only half-full when we arrived. It was around 8pm on the eve of Mexican Independence Day, a day known as “El Grito” in Mexico. On this night the “Grito” or cry for independence would be read from the balcony of Ingnacio Allende’s house in San Miguel de Allende facing the square. Father Hidalgo’s words to the common people of Mexico in 1810, though lost to history, challenged and encouraged them to throw off the centuries of domination by the Spanish. We had heard that the town would be packed with people for the event but it just seemed to be slightly more bustling than usual. In the plaza in front of the Parroquia stood three tall towers of fireworks called “castillos”. Stefanie and I admired their construction, soaring some 30 feet in the air, and only imagined what they’d do when set to match. We picked a spot on the curb behind rope lines for the parade route with a good view up and down the parade path and into the plaza with the castillos. Recorded music was playing through the public P.A., interspersed with what seemed to my weak sense of Spanish to be capsule history lessons on the events surrounding Father Hidalgo’s speech.

We had visited Dolores Hidalgo a few weeks ago and visited the steps of the church where he delivered the Grito. Dolores is a lovely town with a beautiful, shady zocalo. It is also known for wonderful, homemade ice cream, a well justified reputation in which we indulged freely. They have a fine Independence Museum with murals, paintings and diorama exhibits, some with English translations. We met a medical student there, a Mexican who lived in Chicago at one time, around 55th and Archer. He introduced himself after identifying us by our hard vowels.

There was a good dose of some magic elixir in the air as we sat anticipating the evening’s events. The crowd was steadily growing and a sudden cloudburst sent many scrambling behind us into the arcade walkway. Mexican flags were everywhere, headbands, green-white-red wigs, many happy people eager to show their national pride. We passed at least 2 hours there, in building anticipation. By 11 pm the place was absolutely jam-packed and horse mounted police began shooing people off the parade route and into our laps.

The parade band kicked off their marshall music back up the street and a buzz went through the crowd. Soon they were marching right in front us, accompanied by a beaming mayor, a beauty queen and their entourage. A siren-car-escorted group of marathoners followed with the front runner carrying a torch. After they passed the crowd burst through the rope lines and filled the approach to the plaza. Above the crowd, from Allende’s former residence, a voice through loudspeakers began exhorting the crowd. The plaza was rolling with Mexican flags waving vigorously, a sea of green, red and white. The bells of the Parroquia began tolling. The voice boomed out the names of revolutionary heroes, “VIVA” the crowd would yell. Back and forth, each time louder “Vivas” would sound. I was hugging Stef and yelling out myself, caught up in the joy that these Mexicans shared on this proud day for them.

Libertad is an important concept in Mexico, but it apparently differs slightly from our more self-indulgent take on freedom. I joke around with Stefanie with my old “I just want to be free” when she suggests sticking to the program. Apparently I used that phrase frequently in my youth, usually as an excuse to my mother to avoid attending things like summer bible classes. Another line that’s popped back into consciousness is “Why can’t I, it’s a free country!” That was a good piece of grade school sass when someone said “You can’t do that” and you were set on doing whatever the hell you wanted. Usually followed by “this ain’t Russia!”

Well, Mexican “Libertad”, while carrying a good deal of our “pursuit of happiness”, freedom from oppression meaning also connotes respect and responsibility in its execution. It’s a much more communal sense of freedom where you are challenged to exercise your freedom to do good for all.
Joining in the last cries of “VIVA”, I was getting so emotionally caught up in the moment that I was sure my US citizenship was in jeopardy. At last, with one final “Viva” the fireworks exploded behind the Jardin, sending columns of light rocketing into the air. The gate in front of the Parroquia burst into showers of sparkler fountains. The flags in the plaza gyrated tirelessly as the people let loose their patriotic passion.

It was quite a moment. Oh, and the castillos didn’t disappoint either. They are true wonders of the pyro art, banging, shroking, flashing to life. Big spinning disks of rockets igniting in careful sequence, gradually building to the top over maybe 20 minutes. Then, a large flower-like structure unfolds at the top and the minions of the beast manually turn the center post so it too can spin. Finally the “crown” comes to life with a spack, pfizz, crackling fuse that runs up the length of the tower. The top spins around in a spark shower for a minute and then, in the spirit of the evening, rockets off into the air.

— Dave

It takes going to a foreign country with a different language to make something ordinary, like the common cold, seem exotic. Indeed, it gave my cold a new aura over the last week. According to my medicine package I had resfriado or possibly gripe. Well, that’s more like it! Finally, a country that turns nasal congestion and a sore throat into something substantial. I automatically felt more deserving to take medicine and rest up. Imagine calling into work and telling your boss you have resfriado. She definitely would want you to stay home. Sounds contagious just to say it! Never being one to suffer my sickness in silence, gripe also kind of gets to the heart of things. I certainly had that. How can you not gripe when you feel like you swallowed a potato peeler and your nose has stopped exchanging oxygen and instead has turned into a faucet?

Luckily, my magic medicine and rest took care of my malady by the end of the week, and we were able to experience things even more exotic than resfriado, this being the weekend of the Sanmiguelada. That’s San Miguel’s version of Pamplona, Spain’s running of the bulls. A tradition for many years, participants wear white shirts and red bandanas as they run through the streets on a designated course of several blocks around the Jardin ahead of nostril-flaring bulls. Or that’s the way it’s supposed to occur. Instead, the participants mingle in the blocked-off streets awaiting the toros and then run like hell until the bulls pass.

Dave and I, along with our current upstairs neighbor, Monica, who’s renting Charlotte and Wolf’s apartment this month, had ring-side “seats” for the action, stationing ourselves just behind the barriers on the high northwest corner of the Jardin. I told Dave I felt like we were at the Indy 500 for all of the throng of people and anticipation of injury. People were shoulder to shoulder all along the barriers, and there were milk carton crates and buckets to rent (US$5) to stand on for a better view for those behind the lucky people immediately behind the barriers. We of course rented one and immediately got very familiar with our neighbors as everyone began to press together. People lined the rooftops and balconies along the Jardin and crowded the windows of the hotels overlooking the streets. A helicopter kept buzzing overhead to advertise a local bar.

The participants were mostly guys, some with horned caps, some with capes and pointed sticks. Our favorite was a guy with a bull painted on his chest and wearing a Mexican sombrero. Gotta love that machismo! Altogether officials eventually let 6 bulls loose, beginning with a couple to warm things up. The bulls looked kind of small from my memories of farm life and what I’ve seen in pictures of bull fights. Also, no raging, stomping, and tossing people in the air as we’d imagined. Instead, I think the bulls just wanted to get out of there. They mostly ran together along one edge of the street and just kept running. Except when someone whacked them, or swished a cape in their face. Then there was confrontation and some charging, though we never saw anyone get hurt. Mostly, by the end it had become the teasing of the bulls rather than the running of the bulls. I still say, for all the hype and chaos it seemed the smartest animals out in the streets by far were the bulls.

The climax of our week was remembering an even more exciting event in Dave’s and my life – our wedding 6 years ago. Somehow the years have stacked up to that surprising amount so soon. No dreams of Mexico back then for either of us, and how unbelievable if that’s where you’d have told us we’d be 6 years in the future. Our celebration included dinner out at Casa de Sierra Nevada on the east corner of Parque Juarez, a lovely intimate restaurant in a hacienda setting. Charlotte had recommended it for Sunday brunch, so it felt like the proper place to end our weekend in remembrance of our day. Spanish came to our rescue again in transforming the ordinary into the sublime. Rose petals became petalos rosas and made a fragrant and beautiful addition to my quesadillas both as an ingredient and garnishment. The ugly and dreaded corn smut was instead huitlacoche, magically transformed into a velvety black gravy for a shrimp and linguine dish, seasoned with more exotica, epazote. Our darkened open-air dining room overlooking the courtyard with palms and bouganvillaea and Spanish architecture made us feel far from the city in a secluded hideaway.

But we’re still us down here south of the border where things aren’t always what they seem.

— Stef