Pippi Longstocking is coming into your town

I'm no good at Halloween costumes. Last year, in dire need of a last-minute costume, I flipped through my sister's 20th century history book and landed on the Titanic. This year, I spent even less time on a costume. Coworkers asked me for weeks in advance what I was going to be, to which I answered "I don't know" up until Thursday night.

Jessica left early on Friday morning. Perhaps Thursday should have been spent preparing for the all-day Halloween party at school the next morning, but we chose to spend it differently. We got tortas after school, went to a Bible study in the evening, and went salsa dancing in Cholula late at night. In the taxi on the way home, a friend suggested a costume that wouldn't require more energy than I had to give at 2 a.m.: I was Pippi Longstocking for the day.

Weekend summary

I hate zoos. I can't think of many worse activities than standing on boiling cement in the Texas heat watching miserable animals pacing in their cages. The Puebla zoo is different, though. It's kind of like that African Safari ride at Disney world, but without all the safety precautions. Animals roam, and people drive. That's about it. Signs warn passengers to close windows during the dangerous parts.

I went this Saturday with Karen, Ivan, and Jessica. We packed into Ivan's little yellow Mustang and drove through the zoo. All was sunshine and rose petals till we got to the tiger cage. There, we parked our car to watch three sweet-looking tigers sleep.



While we were parked, one of the tigers walked over to our car and circled it. We laughed a bit, took pictures, and strained to get better views. Then, it went behind the car, and we heard a deep scraping sound. Smiles quickly vanished. We drove to safety and got out of the car to survey the damage. The tiger had bitten the car, leaving two penetrating holes in the bumper and tiger drool dripping down.




We left the zoo and went to a nearby lake to drink coconut and rum. Later that evening, Jessica, Kristin, and I went to El Mojito to go salsa dancing.

On Sunday, I joined a group of school friends on Puebla's tour bus. We took zillions of pictures and pretended to be tourists for a few hours.



Afterward, we ate tacos and churros. Then Jessica came to my apartment to watch Friends. Good weekend.

An after-school work party

I found myself in a white tent surrounded by poinsettia trees drinking tequila and dancing in a long train with my coworkers. I don't remember that ever happening at my work parties in the States.

Food consumed at the Texas state fair:

-Funnel cake
-Fried peanut butter cups
-Fried oreos
-BBQ nachos
-Grande nachos
-Pokey-o-my-gosh



Bites of:
-Cotton candy
-Lemon chill
-Corn dog
-Fried pecan pie

God bless Texas!

A Canadian Thanksgiving

As expatriates, my coworkers and I tend to take advantage of any holiday we can. One coworker is Canadian; hence, we celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving. We divvied up dishes during Friday Lunch, and I landed sweet potatoes. Before I'd even finished my chipotle sushi roll, I knew I had my work cut out for me.

My first challenge was grocery shopping. I made my list, knowing that I'd have to be creative. The sweet potatoes were rotting, but an employee hauled out a fresh box when I asked for them. I settled on honey and white sugar as a substitute for brown sugar. A half hour search finally yielded pecans. Lard was nice and easy to find. Nutmeg and ginger were nonexistent. I found a round pan that would serve as a casserole dish. I opted on borrowing a boiling pot from a friend.

I got up early Sunday morning to boil the potatoes and make the pie crusts before church. I missed my old kitchen. I still haven't figured out if my current kitchen is real kitchen or just a closet.



I used the casserole dish for a mixing bowl, a crema container for a measuring cup, and a drinking glass for a rolling pin.



On the way home from church, I got a cheap mixing bowl from Walmart and stopped by my friends' house to borrow ginger and nutmeg.

During cooking, I used the "rolling pin" as a potato masher and opened the can of evaporated milk with a pair of scissors. I tried grinding the ginger with a jar of peanut butter, but it didn't work.



Ovens aren't a huge priority here in Mexico. Mine doesn't light, and the door falls open at the slightest disturbance. My friends' oven at least lights, although the door is no better than mine. They live a bus-ride away, though, which presented the biggest challenge yet: transporting all four sloshing dishes across town on a rickety, screeching, jostling bus.



I packed what wouldn't spill in a backpack and put the rest in a cardboard box. Then I tiptoed two blocks to the bus stop. The driver kindly helped me get in, and the bus was empty enough for me to be able to spread out.

Despite the hassle it caused, the dinner was wonderful. We managed to pull off a decent Thanksgiving meal, although hints of Mexico snuck in:


Enjoying hors d'oeuvres: apple cider, salsa potato chips, and vegetables with chipotle dip


Kristin carving our Thanksgiving chicken. Carving may be a bit generous, considering that the only complete poultry she was able to find was already cut up.


Ready to enjoy the feast: lemon pepper chicken, nutmeg roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, salad, sweet potato pie, cherry pie, cheesecake, and brownie cheesecake.

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada!

Neverneverland

This dance is proving difficult. Because my credit card was stolen last month, I can't purchase any songs on iTunes, which means I've been relying on my students for the music. I asked them to bring their High School Musical CDs, but they all forgot. One boy brought his DVD, though, so we made do with that. As he was leaving on Friday, I asked him if he wanted to take his DVD home. He said, "No, you can keep it in case they forget again on Monday."

I have far too much dignity to like High School Musical, but I've never seen the first one, and with the DVD in my possession for an entire weekend, I couldn't resist. I mentioned to a friend that I was planning on watching it, and she mentioned it to another friend. At 6 p.m. on a Saturday, when most of Mexico is hitting the bars, three coworkers and I watched High School Musical on my roommate's 42" plasma TV. We followed the show with tortas and bowling.

I guess we never really do grow up.

It's choreography

We live in a world that compels us to define ourselves in terms of our careers. For several years, I have wondered what I am. Am I a teacher? Am I a scholar? Am I a writer? Am I something entirely different? I've had trouble fitting myself into one box and have wondered how that will affect my future decisions.

Thanks to the upcoming 3rd-grade ceremony, though, I can now eliminate one profession from my list: I am not a choreographer. My students are presenting on United Nations Day. I tried to include them in the planning process as much as possible. Together, we brainstormed ideas for our presentation and settled on a short skit followed by a dance to "We're All in This Together" from High School Musical. Never again. I spent my entire Friday filtering ideas, mediating disputes, restarting the music (which we are getting from a DVD, since they all forgot to bring their CDs), and calming eight-year-olds who can't handle that much stimulation. I nearly gave up after the first hour. By the end of the day we had a dorky little dance choreographed, and as long as I danced it in front of them (my new MacBook Pro bobbing along in my arm so that they could hear it), they were able to follow.

I'll be really glad when the ceremony is over and I can go back to teaching subject-verb agreement and cause and effect.

On Mexico, doctors, and coughs

The Mexican government takes good care of its employees. After jumping through countless hoops to get their work papers (FM3), expatriates living in Mexico are treated to all of the privileges of a native government employee. This mainly includes government health care. Sick employees can obtain paid sick days only by going to a government doctor, waiting all day in a public clinic, and getting assigned to a doctor who may or may not be qualified. Those employees who are too pretentious to go the government route (or those who actually want health care) can sacrifice a day of employment and see a private doctor.

I, however, have not finished jumping through the hoops to get my FM3 and am entirely uninsured. This bothered me slightly when I felt myself getting sick nine days ago, but I figured my cure-all treatment of airborne and sleep would suffice. In this land of swine flu paranoia, though, I should have known better.

Yesterday was an in-service day without students. An hour before dismissal, I found myself in an auditorium with the entire preschool and primary staff, listening to a lecture on the swine flu. While the doctor droned on about statistics and how any student with a cough or runny nose should be sent home, I attracted scowls and glares by my hacking cough. After dismissal, I heard my name called over the intercom. Administration had made arrangements to pay for me to see a private doctor. Was I available at 6 p.m.?

"Yes, thank you," I smiled. "Yes, I'm available. No, I don't have to go grocery shopping or study for the GRE or rest. I'd love to go see a doctor for a cough."

I opted against a taxi after realizing that my designated doctor was only a mile or so from my house. Any deep breathing, though, made me cough and made my lungs hurt. I walked along in the wind, coughing and grumbling to myself about stupid doctors the entire way.

I hate doctors. They take what is nothing and give you drugs for it and charge you money. This doctor pronounced bronchitis, probably brought on by bacteria from an untreated influenza last week. I'd kind of guessed that already, and I'd managed to live so far. I assured the doctor that I didn't have a fever, but on the walk back I decided to buy a thermometer to check, since, as my roommate says, "You've got a high heat tolerance." I guess she's right; my temperature was near 103.

I let the school have their way with the doctor and the drugs, but I wasn't going to sacrifice one of my personal days. Plus, I figured, if an entire weekend of sleep hadn't healed me, would one more day really help? I gagged down the three prescribed drugs, donned the required face mask (which I mostly wore around my neck), and braved the evil stares of coworkers when they saw that I hadn't taken a day off. I'm glad I went. Some days of teaching are just better than others, and this was one of those. Plus, I stopped for sushi on the way home.

In pursuit of stories (and clean clothes)

Several years ago, I decided my life would be lived in pursuit of stories. Living in Mexico has certainly added to my repository. Almost any event, no matter how small, can be turned into a story.

Laundry is one of the most mundane duties in the US. Here in Mexico, though, nothing is mundane. Unless you are one of the privileged few in possession of a washer, you are stuck taking your laundry to the tintoreria, a full-service laundry mat. Self-service laundry mats do not exist here. While I have enjoyed picking up laundry that is magically ironed and folded, the erratic hours of the tintorerias make their full service much more exhausting than a self-service laundry mat.

I have the habit of waiting until the last possible minute to do laundry. While this worked fine when I could run downstairs to the dorm laundry machines any time of the day or night, it has proven inconvenient when the tintorerias are open only three days a week, from 4:30 to 6:30, and only then if nothing else is going on in the owners' lives. Last week my roommate and I, in need of clean clothes, arrived at the tintoreria only a few minutes after it had closed. The doors had been pulled down, blocking the "Tintoreria" sign, but we pounded as hard as we could anyway. When an old man finally opened the door, we held our our bags of dirty clothes and begged him to take them for us. He shook his head, but we continued to beg. We didn't see any possible reason he had for refusing our clothes. Until, that is, we peered through the doorway and found that we were at the wrong place. Instead of being at the laundry mat, we were next door to it, at an ordinary family's house, begging an ordinary old man to wash our dirty laundry.

Now I just pay careful attention to the laundry mat's constantly changing hours and try to plan my life around my laundry schedule.

First room done!

I finished decorating my bedroom! I'm so much more relaxed when I feel like I'm living in my home and not in a bare apartment. With the bedroom down, all I need to work on is the office, the living room, and the dining room. That's not too much, right?

Here's my bedroom from all four corners.


(Will's scene from "Night at the Museum" made it on the wall.)


(My closet is visible in this picture. No door means that I fight a continually losing battle to keep the closet neat.)


(Makeshift vanity table created from old school desk and metal rods sticking dangerously out of the wall.)


(Those things are common in Mexico; they are made from tree bark. They smell like incense.)

And here's a little bonus: This is my desk in the office, where I study and write. Note the Don Quixote spheres.

Forgetting my L1?

While walking home yesterday, I said to myself, "This week starts all of the TV shows." Yikes.

School

Considering that I moved down here to teach school, my job is probably deserving of at least one post.

So far, I have no complaints. The kids were a bit rowdy at first, but they are coming in line. Planning is so much easier than it was last year. The students are English Language Learners, but they are very sharp. I have been enjoying having students who understand grammar lessons. Even though they are learning English, their vocabulary continues to impress me. One little boy came up to me today to tattle. He pointed to another girl and said, "She was saying some things, and they...offended me."

Here is a sample day in pictures:

I begin by catching the bus. It drops me off across the street from my school. The bridge I walk across affords me a thrilling view of the volcano:


At school, I wait in an empty classroom:


White board waiting for students:


I tried to set a purpose for the year by asking the children why they come to school:


This was my favorite answer. It reads "I come to school to learn how to be paleologist or arquelogist or antropologist or dancer or egiptologist." I especially like the illustrations.


Quick story: To print the "Why are We Here?" center, I had to use the office computer after school when most of the teachers were already leaving. I clicked "print," and nothing happened. So I clicked it again. This time, I heard laughter from the next room where my principal and other administrators had gathered. I realized that I had sent the page to their printer.

At the end of the day, my school looks something like this:

Day 32

Today marks the longest I have been out of Texas. In honor of my great state, here are a few things I miss:

-Hot weather: I have Puebla and Garland weather displayed on my iGoogle page. Right now, Garland reads "103" and Puebla "68". I'm cold.
-My cowboy boots: I will definitely be bringing them back next time I make a trip home.
-Dresses: I tried wearing one yesterday and nearly froze.
-Honky Tonks: No one has heard of them!
-Country music: I bought some of my favorite songs during my first week here. Now I listen to them when I'm on the bus and pretend I'm listening to the radio.
-Smoked meat dripping with sweet BBQ sauce

I met my first Texan here on Saturday. She held up the Longhorn sign, and I felt at home. And when I once mentioned bluebonnets, everyone thought I was talking about butter!

A week of unfortunate events

This past week has brought me one mishap after the other. Just to delineate:

Monday:
At 2 p.m. I received a text: "Today at 3 pm ernesto will be at ur apt to move furniture to new apt". My roommate and I had just settled on an apartment the day before. My guest had just left at four that morning. I hadn't even thought of packing. Kay and I rushed back from work and found our landlords waiting at our door, ready to oversee the move. We packed, directed, loaded, moved, unloaded, and unpacked in about four hours. I love beginning my weeks with activities that entirely incapacitate me for the rest of the week.

Tuesday:
I was hoping to get settled, but the school wanted me to take a Spanish test at another campus to see if I was capable of holding parent-teacher conferences without an interpreter. I rushed through the test, like I do with all tests, and was stuck waiting at the high school for two hours until I could get a ride. I saw a fellow teacher I hadn't seen since week one, and upon seeing me, he said, "You look stressed." "I feel stressed," I replied.

My attempts for a long, hot shower were thwarted when our gas ran out. That meant no hot dinner. I wasn't feeling great, so I went out to email my family and grab a warm torta. I came back to the flood described in my last post.

Wednesday:
My 23rd birthday. I missed home. While out getting a beer with some coworkers, I discovered that my wallet was missing -- the wallet that held my only debit card, my driver's license, and a lot of my cash. I'd last had it while skyping with my sister at Starbucks. I went home and tried again to take a warm shower (we'd filled the gas tank that day), only to find that our water cistern was empty.

Thursday:
I got up early to look for my wallet at Starbucks before school. It wasn't there. I spent my first planning period talking to my mom in the US, and she was able to cancel my debit card after verifying that someone had been using it. (Without my own internet service, I wasn't able to get on a secure enough line to access my account myself). I spent my next planning period developing a budget that would allow me to stretch my money until my next paycheck.

Based on the past few days of apartment disasters, I should have known to stay away. But I was tired and hungry, and I couldn't afford to eat out, so I went home. This time, I found that the afternoon rain had refilled our cistern, giving my toilet enough water to flood my bedroom a second time. I groaned and decided to walk out and cook a hot lunch before returning to sweep up the water.

Friday:
Our campus received its second and third confirmations of Swine Flu (both of them in the grade I teach), and my imagination tried its best to convince me that my throat was swelling up and my head feeling hot. The letter I received saying that I had passed Tuesday's Spanish exam and would be receiving a slight pay increase failed to improve my mood. I went to bed at eight and slept for 14 hours.

Saturday:
Nothing bad! I slept late, wrote, read, studied for the GRE, went to a school potluck, and then went to a coworker's birthday party where I had birthday cake and pretended that it was really mine.

Sunday:
I looked forward to going to church after my awful week. I spent the morning writing before I got ready to go. At 11, I realized that I had the wrong time. I was supposed to meet my ride across town ten minutes before 11. I tried calling her, but I had spent all of my cell phone minutes calling the States to fix my wallet problem. I had not yet found an Oxxo near my new apartment, so I set out in an attempt to find one. After a bit of walking, I spotted an Oxxo, recharged my phone, and called my ride to explain and apologize. Then I found an Italian Coffee Company and treated myself to a mocha overflowing with whipped cream. I deserved it, I thought.

Here's to a new week!

The great flood

I came home late tonight, exhausted and feeling depressed and homesick. I wanted nothing more than to get to bed quickly and forget everything in deep sleep. I threw my purse on the kitchen table, jammed my keys into my pocket, and went straight to my bedroom. As I stepped into my room, I felt a cold wetness seeping up my socks. My floor had become a pool.

Apparently, the toilet in my bathroom has not yet learned when it should stop refilling. And apparently, my bedroom and bathroom floors slant inward toward my bed. About an inch of water had collected there. I didn't have a clue how to mop it up. All of my towels were at the laundry mat, I had no desire to soil my few remaining articles of clean clothing, and unlike Curious George, I knew of no neighbor with a pump. I grabbed a broom and tried pushing the water toward the drain in the bathroom, but that meant sweeping it uphill around three right angles. It wasn't too cooperative.

Finally, I resorted to sweeping the water into a dustpan and then dumping it into a bucket. Although the floor looked no different, I felt rather triumphant after the first bucketful:



After sweeping up as much as I possibly could, I tried to mop up the rest by skating around on T-shirts. T-shirts, I discovered, are not too absorbent, despite their 100%-cotton labels.

Now I am sitting on my bed, and I feel almost like I am on an island. I hope the rest of the water will air dry while I am away tomorrow. Strangely, enough, my spirits are greatly improved. Nothing like sweeping five gallons of water into a bucket to lighten the mood, I suppose.