One thing I won't miss

I was waiting for Sara in the deportivo yesterday when, as usual, some guy thinks he can make my day by trying to chat me up. This time it was a fat, middle-aged postman.

I saw him come in on his bike and stop about fifty feet from me, starring. I could just see the gears turning in his head, deciding how to approach me. He bikes over and stops dead in front of me and asks for the time. I tell him it’s ten past four. He stays right where he is, unsure as to what to do next. Apparently my friendly but detached tone and eyes looking everywhere but at him aren’t enough of a hint, and he puts his bicycle off to the side and sits down next to me and proceeds to ask me fifteen minutes worth of awkward questions, punctuated by even more awkward silences, but even my obvious disinterest doesn't deter him. Even after Sara arrives and we start to walk to Chedraui, he actually follows us on his bike. Talk about really not getting the hint.

Look, I understand that he was just trying to be nice. I'm sure his intentions weren't exactly pure, but I know he didn't mean anything offensive by trying to chat with una güera bonita. But that doesn't mean I have to talk back if I don't want to, and when someone can't take a hint, that's annoying. Estoy esperando para una amiga means I came here with a purpose that did not include talking to you, and since I am clearly not engrossed in our conversation, you should be able to infer that I'm just not interested and leave with some dignity.

But I guess that's just not what they do here. I should be used to it by now, shouldn't I? I certainly won't miss it though.



In other more positive deportivo news, I went to watch the Northern Englishman play football today. Not only did no one hit on me (yay!), but we chatted for about an hour after the game, and then he walked me home. I'm just so in love with his the way his pronounces his Os and Us. Oh, Leeds' accents. Le sigh.

Mentira no, tíralo, pásalo písalo

I never listened to reggaeton back in the states. Not that I have any particular prejudice against it; no, I got over feeling superior to any type of music (except Christmas music) a long time ago. But I just didn't listen to it, or pay it any attention.

But, y'all, I love reggaeton now. And also possibly gangsta' rap? (That one is all Catherine's fault.)





Is it sad that this is probably the song I would consider most definitive of my experience in Mexico? Because they play it freakin' everywhere.





Is this song technically reggaeton? I'm not sure. But it's really amazing.



Okay, this is just Spanish pop music. But I'm addicted.

Like high school

I can't help but feel just a little bit giddy.

This is from the sixteen-year-old, by the way. Who is now seventeen. Yeeeeeep.

I ain't your guera

Last night I was at the Panteón General, waiting for my host sister, when some random, middle-aged guy saw me, yelled, "Guera!", tried to put his arm around me, and indicated to someone in his party to take a photo.

I was like, Um, no, I am not a display in a museum.

Bitch, I ain't your white girl.

Sugar & spice

Sugar & spice, originally uploaded by sappycoldplaywhore.

Día de los Muertos festivities kicked off yesterday. We all went to Ashley's apartment to build an altar, which turned out awesomely. For right now, you'll have to make due with only a picture of one of the sugar skulls (you can't eat them until November 2, when the holiday is over, otherwise los muertos will come and paint your face at night), but hopefully I'll upload many more more pictures. Because Oaxaca goes crazy for Muertos. We already went and saw a danza de los muertos last night at the Casa de Cultura, and the holiday isn't technically until November 1.

And I know I've posted this already, but because it's Muertos and it's so fantastic, I'm just gonna go ahead and do it again.

Shit

"Me gusta ver a ti," me dijo.

Oh dear, I think but don't say, you're sixteen. You're sixteen. You're sixteen.

But damn, you're fucking cute.



When I got home, I opened the door to find Daca asleep on the stairs. My entrance woke up him and he seemed really fucking terrified for a minute, so I asked him what he was doing, you know, sleeping on the stairs. He didn't really have an answer, other than, 'I just sat down there for a sec' and denied being drunk. But the loud stumbling up the stairs and running into walls begged to differ.

That was awkward

I was at the deportivo today, waiting for my intercambio who was running late, and this guy starts talking to me, like, whatever, it's all good, I'm used to it now. Anyway, we chat for a bit, he doesn't seem that interesting, but that's okay, because look! Sara is here now.

I try to give him the brush off and he asks for my phone number, like any decent, persistent Mexican would. But I have still yet to actually learn my Mexican cell phone number, and he lost his phone. So he asks for Sara's number, and says he will text her and she can send him my number.

I find this a bit weird and borderline offensive (to Sara, not to me), but apparently people in Mexico do this quite often? Ah, cultural differences. Those white girls' numbers are valuable, y'know!

Estoy bromeando

"Ah, ¡me gustan tus aretes! Son muy bonitas. Yo recuerdo cuando mis hijas eran niñas y les compraba cosas como estas," mi maestra me dijo.

"Puedes comprarme estas cosas, si tú quieres," yo dije.

We're not from here

It's never surprised me much that the United States would have a holiday celebrating the beginning of the end for countless millions of Native Americans. We are a nation made up of, primarily, the very white people who did the raping and pillaging and spreading of highly contagious diseases and enslaving and murdering. And we won, in the end. We got rid of most of those pesky indigenous people who were in the way of our land, our resources, our purple mountains majesty, whatever. It's only fit that we celebrate Columbus Day.

But it really surprised me that they celebrate it here in Mexico.

But I suppose I shouldn't complain too much, because we got the day off for it today.

Melissa and I went shopping on Alcalá, a street with the nicer shops, and maybe it's just because I'm usually not out in the Centro at that time or maybe we're approaching the high traffic season here in Oaxaca, but there were a lot of middle-aged and retirement-aged white tourists.

Y'all can probably already tell that I hate other tourists.

I know I'm technically a tourist, but I like to think of myself as better than a tourist, because I'm studying here, and living with a family, and I actually speak Spanish. So, I tell myself, I'm not really a tourist.

But the reason I really hate tourists is because seeing them reminds me exactly of what I am. And when trying so hard to reason that I'm not a real tourist, that's not the kind of reminder I like to have.

We met (well, Melissa met) these two women in this shop, La Mano Mágica, one of whom was from the same town in Florida as Melissa is. And as we wound our way through a couple shops, we kept running into them, as is wont to happen when you're shopping on the same street. They did not speak Spanish at all, which I actually relish, because it means I get to feel superior. And I as I was speaking Spanish to the owner of a jewelry store, feeling very superior, I told him that we were studying in Oaxaca until December, and he said we should come and help translate for a clinic of American optometrists that is going to some nearby pueblos to give out free glasses the first week of November.

See? Trying to be superior is a good thing.

Molé Chile Ancho

We actually took this cooking class ages ago (September 17, to be exact) and I'm just now getting around to making the recipe post. I KNOW, FOR SHAME. Oh well.

So, to begin: molé is the pre-hispanic word for sauce. There are about a million different types of molé because there are a million different types of chiles, not to mention every Dick and Jane (what would the Spanish equivalent of that be? Ricardo y... Jane? Hmmm, things to ponder) does their own thing with molé (of course). Each type of molé has a specific type of meat it's served with, usually with rice and tortillas on the side. And the spiciness, bitterness, sweetness, whateverness of the molé varies wildly by recipe. The molé we made was hardly spicy and very smoky with only a hint of bitterness (the good kind of bitterness; yes, such a thing exists).

We started by going to the market for, you know, a real authentic experience. Of course, our cooking instructor was the one buying all the ingredients while we were relegating to standing around and holding random things as he handed them to us, but we did get to watch our chicken filets get pounded!


I have to admit that all in all, I did very little of the actual cooking, as we had one pot of molé and eight people to cook it. But even though I have heard all about the painstaking process that is preparing molé, this seemed remarkably easy. So easy that I'm pretty sure any gringo can do it on their own, although you might need to go to a Hispanic or specialty food market to find the chiles, as I've never seen dried chiles at Ralph's.

Without further ado, the recipe!

Molé sauce:
125 grams chile ancho
6 tomatoes (chopped)
1/2 onion (chopped)
5 garlic cloves (chopped)
1 roll of bread (cut in halves)
1 large stick of cinnamon
oregano
pepper
sugar
vegetable oil

Rice:
1/2 kilogram rice (2 cups)
3 garlic cloves (chopped)
1/4 onion (chopped)
salt
vegetable oil

Chicken:
9 fillets
1 clove garlic (chopped)
salt

Directions:
Take seeds and veins out of chiles. Fry all molé ingredients separately in vegetable oil, then let sit in pot of water until soft. Add pepper and oregano.


Put rice and vegetable oil into pot and cook over stove. Blend garlic, onion, and salt in blender, then pour into the pot with rice.

Boil the chicken, garlic, and salt in a pot of water.

Take all molé ingredients from pot of water and blend with water from the chicken. Fill the blender up about halfway with the molé ingredients and use 1 cup of the chicken water. Repeat until all mole ingredients have been blended.

Use a strainer to filter the blended molé and remove all big chunks of ingredients. (This is very important, as some of the chile fibers can upset your stomach.) Filter sauce into a large pot cooking over stove on very low heat (it takes awhile to strain, and you don't want it to burn). Add sugar and salt to taste, but keep in mind it should be a bit bitter. To make the molé thicker, add pieces of bread blended with a little water. Once you've achieved the desired taste and viscosity, let the molé come to a very gentle boil if it hasn't already done so.

Serve mole sauce over the chicken with rice on the side.


¡Qué sabroso!

Speaking the English

One of my teachers was ill today, so after my first class I went to the Zócalo with Ashley. We were approached by this group of girls in school uniforms who asked us, in broken English, if they could talk to us for a school project. Of course, that meant that they would film our 'interview' for their class project. Which, okay, whatever, it's all good.

They ask us if we like Oaxaca, where we've visited, if we like the food, if we like Mezcal. When we say, Yeah, Mezcal is okay, they give Ashley a shot of Mezcal. And she takes it. AT ELEVEN THIRTY IN THE MORNING.

We did interviews for another two groups, but we both passed on the Mezcal they offered.


I hope their teacher enjoys watching the same two white girls three times in a row.

¡Viva México!

¡Viva!, originally uploaded by sappycoldplaywhore.

Yesterday (and technically today too, because we get it off? I dunno) was Mexican Independence Day. I wore a green skirt, red tank top, and white overshirt. People kept looking at me, as if thinking, "Is she doing that on purpose, or is she just retarded?"

It does feel a bit strange to go to someone else's country and celebrate their national holidays, acting like you actually live there, and I sometimes felt yesterday that I was being one of those white people. But then I remembered that this is really just a big party and an excuse to get drunk. Also, CULTURAL IMMERSION.

First we went to a party our school was throwing (complete with a mechanical bull, totally appropriate) and I finally saw the very attractive teacher from Germany. When the girls finally got him to dance, they basically took turns molesting him and I was like, DUDE, THAT'S YOUR TEACHER, IT'S GOING TO BE SO AWKWARD ON THURSDAY. But, you know, after enough tequila, you really don't care.

In the evening, after Mexican pizza (onions, sausage, chorizo, and jalapeños) at Ashley's apartment, we went to the Zócalo for the Grito, where everyone yells, "¡Viva México!" a lot and then there are fireworks. After that, of course, was the drinking and dancing and being harassed by Mexican guys and hearing "I Want You To Want Me" in Spanish. (Carlos tried to tell me that's not what it was, BUT IT TOTALLY WAS.)

We have today off (to nurse hangovers, I guess, but I don't have one!) and holy shit, it's already 5:30 and I still have an essay to write. So, woooooo, ¡viva la independencia!

Sarita

Sarita, originally uploaded by sappycoldplaywhore.

This is my intercambio. She's 4'10 and completely adorable and very nice about all the awful mistakes I make in Spanish.

When we met up yesterday, she wanted me to teach her some English phrases, so I taught her 'wonky', 'mess up', 'wanker', and 'gag me with a spoon', which was actually very amusing, me trying to explain what 'gag' means and the whole idea of a Valley Girl. Then I started singing "Let's Go To The Mall".