Antonio invited a few of his visiting students from Guadalajara over for dinner on Friday night. Apparently Guadalajara is beginning to have a lot of trouble with the narcos (narco traficantes = drug dealers) because as the trade gets bigger and Sinaloa gets more difficult Guadalajara is becoming their new capitol. The students were telling us about certain antros or bars that are frequented by narcos and that it's just easier to avoid them--you never know when you might be smiling at a woman who turns out to be the girlfriend of a narco, and that will get you into trouble. (As in "leave this bar now and never come back or I am going to kill you.")
And I learned a couple new terms:
Narco-Yunior: the son of a narco. Unlike the original narcos, who were born into poverty and worked their way up (albeit illegally and immorally) to extravagant wealth, narco-yuniors are born into money and don't have to do anything for it. They share the fashion sensibility of the narco (embroidered/sequined/tight cowboy shirts, elaborate hats, and fancy boots--apparently Ed Harley (?) is a designer of choice), but they are even more arrogant, capricious, and power-hungry and therefore more dangerous.
Narqui-Wife: the wife of a narco. Identifiable by their mini-faldas, tight and skimpy clothing, big hair, long, decorated acrylic nails, and heavy makeup. Apparently often accompanied by a little toddler with nanny in tow.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Grocery Shopping
Tuesday morning for us means market day. Slowly, we are getting into a household routine, and part of that means trying to do as little shopping as possible in Superama (the Walmart owned supermarket a block from our house) and instead in the local mercados sobre ruedas. These are little informal markets that spring up around the neighborhood on designated days, taking over a few blocks of nearby streets. There are a dozen good reasons to try to shop there and not in a grocery chain: fresher produce (and chicken and fish and meat), lower prices, greater variety, local vendors (with the exception of the fish--we're landlocked!--most of the produce is trucked in from little towns an hour or two away from us.) The only problem is trying to coordinate and plan around market days--finding the time to go on a Tuesday before 2 or 3pm (easier now when I am not teaching), figuring out what you will need for the week, trying to cook all the greens you buy on impulse before they go bad!
We are also slowly getting to know the vendors and the variations between the markets: that the best (and cheapest) place to get fresh, not-very-fatty chicken is a husband and wife couple who sell on Tuesdays; where to get our favorite fresh cheeses and tortillas on Sundays; that our favorite vegetable stand on Sunday sells more expensive lettuce but cheaper tomatoes than the vegetable stand we like to go to on Tuesdays.
Our favorite place and always first stop on Tuesdays, however, is the woman from Milpa Alta (on the outskirts of Mexico City) who sells produce fresh from the pueblo: mini eggplants, green beans, broccoli heads, sometimes cauliflower, sometimes oyster mushrooms, usually fresh bunches of spinach with some dirt still clinging to their roots. We've fallen into the routine of buying from her what looks good and then looking for the rest elsewhere. No matter what we seem to buy from her or how much it always seems to be 40 pesos, and then she always throws in some extra herbs, cilantro or epazote, a few mini tamales...
Anyway, yesterday I bought a bunch of beautiful flor de calabaza (I was going to take a photo but after 24 hours in the fridge in a bag they are a little wilted), which are going into a soup today, and some greens called quílitiles (a Nahuatl word) that apparently are like spinach but more delicious. She gave me instructions on how to prepare them (you have to twist off the colored part of the root and, unlike spinach, they need to be boiled briefly before you can saute them).
After my first stop, I wandered down to the end of the market where they sell the biggest and freshest (and cheapest) lettuce. It's always a little chaotic--vendors calling out "hola güera, what can I offer you? (I am always referred to as "güera," or "light-skinned girl")," dogs running around, women wandering up and down the narrow lanes between rows of stalls selling garlic and small kitchen tools, men pushing crates of stuff in wheelbarrows, schoolchildren in uniforms swarming the stands with nuts and candies, music from the CD vendors ("original copies," of course) blaring. Usually it's salsa, reggaeton, or pop, but yesterday, incongruously, it was Merle Travis and Nancy Sinatra. Sixteen tons and what do you get?
We are also slowly getting to know the vendors and the variations between the markets: that the best (and cheapest) place to get fresh, not-very-fatty chicken is a husband and wife couple who sell on Tuesdays; where to get our favorite fresh cheeses and tortillas on Sundays; that our favorite vegetable stand on Sunday sells more expensive lettuce but cheaper tomatoes than the vegetable stand we like to go to on Tuesdays.
Our favorite place and always first stop on Tuesdays, however, is the woman from Milpa Alta (on the outskirts of Mexico City) who sells produce fresh from the pueblo: mini eggplants, green beans, broccoli heads, sometimes cauliflower, sometimes oyster mushrooms, usually fresh bunches of spinach with some dirt still clinging to their roots. We've fallen into the routine of buying from her what looks good and then looking for the rest elsewhere. No matter what we seem to buy from her or how much it always seems to be 40 pesos, and then she always throws in some extra herbs, cilantro or epazote, a few mini tamales...
Anyway, yesterday I bought a bunch of beautiful flor de calabaza (I was going to take a photo but after 24 hours in the fridge in a bag they are a little wilted), which are going into a soup today, and some greens called quílitiles (a Nahuatl word) that apparently are like spinach but more delicious. She gave me instructions on how to prepare them (you have to twist off the colored part of the root and, unlike spinach, they need to be boiled briefly before you can saute them).
After my first stop, I wandered down to the end of the market where they sell the biggest and freshest (and cheapest) lettuce. It's always a little chaotic--vendors calling out "hola güera, what can I offer you? (I am always referred to as "güera," or "light-skinned girl")," dogs running around, women wandering up and down the narrow lanes between rows of stalls selling garlic and small kitchen tools, men pushing crates of stuff in wheelbarrows, schoolchildren in uniforms swarming the stands with nuts and candies, music from the CD vendors ("original copies," of course) blaring. Usually it's salsa, reggaeton, or pop, but yesterday, incongruously, it was Merle Travis and Nancy Sinatra. Sixteen tons and what do you get?
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Clausurado Por Violar la Ley!
This morning I hauled myself out of bed at 6.30 (it's early when you teach until 10pm the night before!), took the dog out, got dressed, and finally was awake and ready for 7am spinning. So imagine my surprise when I realize that the front door is locked and all the lights are off--usually there are at least twenty people there by 7am in the morning. I walk around the corner and on the gates to the parking lot see the telltale yellow sign: CLAUSURADO POR VIOLAR LA LEY. My gym has been shut down!!!
Being "clausurado" in Mexico seems to be a fairly common thing, and I can't quite figure out if it's the deathknell of a business or a common annoyance. A government official arrives, tells you that you are being shut down, and pastes large yellow signs over the entryway to your business such that to enter you would need to remove the sign, which is also illegal. You can get closed down for all kinds of things: not showing up for permit hearings, not paying taxes, serving underage drinkers, allowing smoking... and also, it seems, for ticking off powerful neighbors. They shut down restaurants, gyms, cafes, nail salons, schoools, and it doesn't seem to matter whether you are a hole-in-the-wall run out of your mother's garage or a fancy fresa hot-spot. Some places seem to be closed for a few days and back in business. A lovely art cafe and restaurant nearby that I've always been meaning to try, which has been shut down for several days, has an eloquent letter posted on its door defending itself against what it says are fraudulent charges and pleading that every day it remains closed makes it less likely to be able to reopen. (Unfortunately for them you must still pay your bills while you are unable to operate.) The beauty salon of luchador Shocker, which is a couple blocks from our house (yes, he lives in Coyoacan, and yes, I saw him once on the street!) was clausurado twice, apparently for not paying taxes, and didn't reopen again.
So my gym, whose monthly membership we have paid and which is just a block from our house, is closed. Next to the clausurado sign is posted a number you can call for information; we'll see if this is just a minor annoyance of not paying a permit or if it is a bigger problem... Meanwhile, it's back to the Viveros for me!
Being "clausurado" in Mexico seems to be a fairly common thing, and I can't quite figure out if it's the deathknell of a business or a common annoyance. A government official arrives, tells you that you are being shut down, and pastes large yellow signs over the entryway to your business such that to enter you would need to remove the sign, which is also illegal. You can get closed down for all kinds of things: not showing up for permit hearings, not paying taxes, serving underage drinkers, allowing smoking... and also, it seems, for ticking off powerful neighbors. They shut down restaurants, gyms, cafes, nail salons, schoools, and it doesn't seem to matter whether you are a hole-in-the-wall run out of your mother's garage or a fancy fresa hot-spot. Some places seem to be closed for a few days and back in business. A lovely art cafe and restaurant nearby that I've always been meaning to try, which has been shut down for several days, has an eloquent letter posted on its door defending itself against what it says are fraudulent charges and pleading that every day it remains closed makes it less likely to be able to reopen. (Unfortunately for them you must still pay your bills while you are unable to operate.) The beauty salon of luchador Shocker, which is a couple blocks from our house (yes, he lives in Coyoacan, and yes, I saw him once on the street!) was clausurado twice, apparently for not paying taxes, and didn't reopen again.
So my gym, whose monthly membership we have paid and which is just a block from our house, is closed. Next to the clausurado sign is posted a number you can call for information; we'll see if this is just a minor annoyance of not paying a permit or if it is a bigger problem... Meanwhile, it's back to the Viveros for me!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The End of Hot Yoga
Well, today is day seven, my last day with the voucher, and no more hot yoga for me. I went faithfully three times in a row; then arranging to have the car or get a ride and block out two and a half hours of the day (getting there, taking the class, getting home, immediately taking a shower--I ended up with my clothes sopping wet so no sitting around for me!) just became too much. Did I set my life on fire? Maybe if I had stuck it out the final four days. But as it was, I am glad I tried it, I don't feel like I need to do it again anytime soon, and I am reminded that I should try to do a little more yoga a little more often...
Friday, December 12, 2008
Fiesta de la Inmaculada Concepción de María
The section of Coyoacan in which Antonio and I live is called la Conchita, short for Barrio de la Inmaculada Concepción de María. (Conchita, as the priest later put it, is our warm nickname for the term.) Last Sunday afternoon (December 7), while sitting at my computer working, I suddenly heard trumpets, horns, drums getting louder and louder coming towards our house. Turning to look out the bedroom window, I see two enormous paper mache figures and a statue of the Virgin Mary glide by, followed by a banner and a marching band surrounded by a large crowd, many of whom were carrying spears of gladiola. Antonio and I ran out to watch.
The procession had originated from the little chapel in the center of the plaza; in this ritual, part of the celebration of the immaculate conception, the parishioners carry the Virgin Maria up and down the main street of the barrio (which happens to be our street) accompanied by a noisy brass band, singing, and repeated cries of "viva la Virgin."
Three or four times the crowd came to a stop in front of a house that had been decorated, the Virgin was set down, facing the house, and a line formed of people waiting to pray in front of the Virgin and touch her face. (Antonio and I assumed that these were the homes of the biggest patrons of the festival--the large banners in the plaza announcing the events for the day made it clear that the fireworks show that spectacularly closes each day of the festival would only be possible if enough donations were made.)
The procession travelled a few blocks past our house and then turned to retrace its steps back to the church. The door to the beautiful chapel had been framed with a kind of floral headboard, its yellow and pink matching the large sand painting that decorated the plaza immediately in front of the church.
As the band took their seats under the tarp to the right of the church, the men carrying the Virgin set the statue down in the middle of the sand painting and began to clean the statue of all the flowers and petals that had been heaped on her during the procession. Children and dogs were running around shouting, the band was playing, and the bells of the church were ringing wildly; it was that kind of festive chaos that we don't seem to have often in the States that strikes just the right balance between headache-inducing and fun.
The Virgin was lifted again and carried into the chapel for a mass.
At nine o'clock that night, we returned to the plaza where a large crowd had gathered to watch the fireworks, or the "toritos," as they call them. In front of the church, an enormous three-tiered scaffolding had been set up with elaborate cords and tubes running all over it. A standard fireworks shot would be fired into the air above the church (after the show we realized that the launching pad for the fireworks was right in the middle of the plaza, about fifteen feet behind us--again, something else you don't see in the States!), and then one section of the scaffolding would be set on fire in a dazzling display. I remember when fireworks displays were a little unusual and exciting, but today it seems like the huge explosions in the sky have become so common that they have lost their wonder. A castle built up in front of a church that burns up bit by bit, accompanied by the deafening sizzling of the explosives and the applause of the crowd, however--that was fun. Each section would explode into spinning white lights, and slowly those would burn off to reveal colored images that would spin in their little circle. As the explosives burned off, bit by bit the spinning would slow and the image--seahorses, starfish, elephants, horses, crosses, a crown, and finally the Virgin--would glow and then slowly fade out. It was fantastic.
The next morning Antonio and I woke up early to go to the morning mass marking the official day of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin. There to wish the Virgin happy birthday was an 8-member mariachi band, standing in an arc facing the statue of the Virgin and the altar, playing and singing away in her honor. We arrived at 7am just as the horns of the mariachis started up and found a seat towards the back, but fifteen minutes into the service I turned around and the crowd was lined up standing in the plaza. Perhaps it was devotion, or perhaps they already knew what we were delighted to find out--all church-goers were invited to breakfast (a tamale and champurrado, a hot drink made from corn that looks like the consistency of bean soup but is delicious) in the plaza after the service.
The procession had originated from the little chapel in the center of the plaza; in this ritual, part of the celebration of the immaculate conception, the parishioners carry the Virgin Maria up and down the main street of the barrio (which happens to be our street) accompanied by a noisy brass band, singing, and repeated cries of "viva la Virgin."
Three or four times the crowd came to a stop in front of a house that had been decorated, the Virgin was set down, facing the house, and a line formed of people waiting to pray in front of the Virgin and touch her face. (Antonio and I assumed that these were the homes of the biggest patrons of the festival--the large banners in the plaza announcing the events for the day made it clear that the fireworks show that spectacularly closes each day of the festival would only be possible if enough donations were made.)
The procession travelled a few blocks past our house and then turned to retrace its steps back to the church. The door to the beautiful chapel had been framed with a kind of floral headboard, its yellow and pink matching the large sand painting that decorated the plaza immediately in front of the church.
As the band took their seats under the tarp to the right of the church, the men carrying the Virgin set the statue down in the middle of the sand painting and began to clean the statue of all the flowers and petals that had been heaped on her during the procession. Children and dogs were running around shouting, the band was playing, and the bells of the church were ringing wildly; it was that kind of festive chaos that we don't seem to have often in the States that strikes just the right balance between headache-inducing and fun.
The Virgin was lifted again and carried into the chapel for a mass.
At nine o'clock that night, we returned to the plaza where a large crowd had gathered to watch the fireworks, or the "toritos," as they call them. In front of the church, an enormous three-tiered scaffolding had been set up with elaborate cords and tubes running all over it. A standard fireworks shot would be fired into the air above the church (after the show we realized that the launching pad for the fireworks was right in the middle of the plaza, about fifteen feet behind us--again, something else you don't see in the States!), and then one section of the scaffolding would be set on fire in a dazzling display. I remember when fireworks displays were a little unusual and exciting, but today it seems like the huge explosions in the sky have become so common that they have lost their wonder. A castle built up in front of a church that burns up bit by bit, accompanied by the deafening sizzling of the explosives and the applause of the crowd, however--that was fun. Each section would explode into spinning white lights, and slowly those would burn off to reveal colored images that would spin in their little circle. As the explosives burned off, bit by bit the spinning would slow and the image--seahorses, starfish, elephants, horses, crosses, a crown, and finally the Virgin--would glow and then slowly fade out. It was fantastic.
The next morning Antonio and I woke up early to go to the morning mass marking the official day of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin. There to wish the Virgin happy birthday was an 8-member mariachi band, standing in an arc facing the statue of the Virgin and the altar, playing and singing away in her honor. We arrived at 7am just as the horns of the mariachis started up and found a seat towards the back, but fifteen minutes into the service I turned around and the crowd was lined up standing in the plaza. Perhaps it was devotion, or perhaps they already knew what we were delighted to find out--all church-goers were invited to breakfast (a tamale and champurrado, a hot drink made from corn that looks like the consistency of bean soup but is delicious) in the plaza after the service.
Hot Yoga: Day Four
I was planning on going for yoga in the evening, but I had to drop off my grades in Polanco, near the center of the city, and spent an exhausting three hours fighting traffic (take a city with a population of 25 million, add major construction projects on major arteries of the city, Thursday afternoon, holiday shoppers, and 5 million pilgrims for the Virgin of Guadalupe, and it's a mess). By the time I got home at 7, starving (hadn't eaten enough lunch), I couldn't face it. I did, however, try to do deep breathing and stay calm and focused every time a driver cut me off or stopped dead at a green light to buy a reindeer antler headband. (Well, the antler incident did get to me, but I tried to quell my rage as quickly as possible once the purchase had been made and correct change found.)
Hot Yoga: Day Three
I was actually kind of looking forward to going back for day three, when as I checked myself in at the front desk the yoga instructor from day one--the one who kept shouting for us to compress our celulite--runs up to buy himself a new pair of tiny little yoga hot pants. I felt a bit of a sinking feeling inside. I don't know if it was him or that the class was at 11.30 and I hadn't had much breakfast (as opposed to the evening classes, when I already have two meals in me), but I spent most of the second half hour sitting or lying down to fight back waves of dizziness. With his hour and forty-five-minute class, however, that still left me plenty of time for grueling yoga. Again, I did feel good afterwards, clothes sopping wet, body all stretched out, but I can't say I like feeling light-headed.
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