An exhausting arrival in Mexico
After the plane landed in Mexico City's main airport I had no idea what to expect. This was my first flight to another country. I'd been to Mexico before, but only to the border city of Jaurez and never into the heart of the country. It was the summer of 1998, and I was just graduating from a small university in western Pennsylvania, traveling to Cuernavaca for a course in advanced Spanish grammar and Mexican cultural studies.
Cuernavaca is a city that lies on the southern slope of the Sierra Madre mountains, just across the continental divide and an hour south of the capital. It's usually called the city of the eternal spring for its normally temperate climate. But when I arrived the land was arid and smoke filled the air for miles in all directions due to out-of-control brush fires that had been set by farmers trying to clear small plots of land for planting.
As the bus descended into the upper part of the city, passing a roundabout featuring a noble statue of Emiliano Zapata, my nostrils started to feel the burn of those distant flames, and I began to have trouble breathing the thin, parched air. Still, I hung my head out of the window trying to soak in all the rich sites of this mysterious place, wanting to orient myself but becoming increasingly dizzy by the sheer enormity of strange new visions stretched out before me.
The streets of Cuernavaca are tight and winding, filled, overflowing with pedestrians, with thin sidewalks backed by high walls covering much of the city's inner beauty. Eventually, the bus turned onto ever smaller streets and alleys until we reached the Centro Bilingue, where groups of families eagerly waited in the courtyard for their arriving "son" or "daughter".
Some of my classmates were greeted by entire clans, complete with parents, children, aunts and uncles. The "mama" who awaited me was an elderly widow who stood alone, displaying a shy smile and outstretched arms. She hugged me as if we'd known each other for years, and after brief introductions she took my arm and led me out into the street and in the direction of home.
I thought we'd get into a car, like most of the other families did, but instead we walked down one street, up another and then down yet another, winding through neighborhoods and commercial districts until we found the busiest street in town. Finally, after just a few strides on Alvaro Obregon, we entered through an iron gate that led directly to a descending outdoor staircase covered the entire length by flowering bougainvillea.
Once we reached the bottom, we crossed a cement bridge to the second level of the house, passing above the downstairs courtyard. This patio led to a front door and yet another staircase, this one inside a beautifully decorated home, which took us into the main living area. To my surprise, the attached dining room was filled with at least 20 people apparently celebrating someone's birthday. I wasn't going to be an only child after all.
I was extremely tired by this point and wanted nothing more than to take a nap, but instead I was whisked around the party and introduced to every member of this large extended family and several servants. The food was incredible: flautas, sopes, rice and refried beans, tortillas, cake and more. I stuffed myself, took lots of pictures, and was interviewed by nearly everyone there. I was forced to use my Spanish more than I ever had while living in Miami the year before, and I struggled with this new dialect. My head hurt, but I stuck in there like a trooper until the very last person had gone. Then my adopted mom led me outside to an adjoined cottage that would be my summer home, and I plopped down on the bed and dozed off while listening to news on the radio.
I awoke several hours later; it was dark and the house next door was quiet. I went in to see what was going on and found three of my new family members sitting in front of a flickering television set. They were glued there watching the telenovela Esmeralda, so I decided I shouldn't interrupt. Instead I headed out to the street in search of my first adventure.
At the top of the staircase I quickly hailed one of what seemed to be dozens of passing taxicabs. I remembered vaguely someone at the school earlier in the day had warned us not to hail cabs but to call radio taxes. They couldn't have meant me, I thought, as I told the driver to step on it and take me to the Zocalo at the center of town.
The place was a circus of activity. Couples and families were walking in circles around the main square, and lovers were sitting on park benches making out beneath the street lamps but partially hidden among the bushes and trees. Mariachis were wandering about, approaching some who paid "un pesito" for a song and entertaining anyone within earshot by default.
A lone child with filthy cheeks and a bright smile approached me while I was trying to take advantage of this wonderful free concert, and I gave him a peso for a small packet of gum. Within seconds there was a herd of them, all under the age of eight, chanting "chicle, chicle, chicle, chicle", almost in unison, until I gave in and bought some from each and every one.
This set me in motion, as I became hip to the fact that a moving target was tougher to hit. No one could ask me things while I was walking, but if I stopped on of a slew of vendors was there ready to beg me to buy some touristy object or another. Some of the stuff was cool to look at, but once I bought something I knew I'd attract ten more trying to sell me the same thing, so I just decided to keep to myself, for now.
I wandered past the Palacio del Gobierno and the Cathedral, which were at either end of the great plaza, and I stopped to listen as amateur men tried their hand at belting out boleros at the main gazebo across the street. They were booed from the stage if they sung off key or couldn't keep to the beet of the mariachis. But some were quite good, and were cheered to continue through to the end of the song. The applause made most men blush, and I began to think I was going to like the humility of the Mexican people, which noticeably from the start stood in contrast to the pride emitted by many Americans, myself included.
After a couple of hours of people watching, and tasting the local flavors offered by street vendors, I hailed a cab for home. This time my driver took a different route, and I felt anxious due to my inability to figure out my north from my south, east from west. Eventually, though, he got me home, and I sat beneath the bougainvillea for a while before heading down those long steps again. I didn't want to go to sleep, but I knew I must. Classes were to start in the morning, and I couldn't be late for my first day. So as I lay my weary head down on that firm feather pillow, my mind filled with thoughts anticipating a wonderful summer. The radio droned on. The smoky air filled my lungs. And soon, I was fast asleep and dreaming.
Cuernavaca is a city that lies on the southern slope of the Sierra Madre mountains, just across the continental divide and an hour south of the capital. It's usually called the city of the eternal spring for its normally temperate climate. But when I arrived the land was arid and smoke filled the air for miles in all directions due to out-of-control brush fires that had been set by farmers trying to clear small plots of land for planting.
As the bus descended into the upper part of the city, passing a roundabout featuring a noble statue of Emiliano Zapata, my nostrils started to feel the burn of those distant flames, and I began to have trouble breathing the thin, parched air. Still, I hung my head out of the window trying to soak in all the rich sites of this mysterious place, wanting to orient myself but becoming increasingly dizzy by the sheer enormity of strange new visions stretched out before me.
The streets of Cuernavaca are tight and winding, filled, overflowing with pedestrians, with thin sidewalks backed by high walls covering much of the city's inner beauty. Eventually, the bus turned onto ever smaller streets and alleys until we reached the Centro Bilingue, where groups of families eagerly waited in the courtyard for their arriving "son" or "daughter".
Some of my classmates were greeted by entire clans, complete with parents, children, aunts and uncles. The "mama" who awaited me was an elderly widow who stood alone, displaying a shy smile and outstretched arms. She hugged me as if we'd known each other for years, and after brief introductions she took my arm and led me out into the street and in the direction of home.
I thought we'd get into a car, like most of the other families did, but instead we walked down one street, up another and then down yet another, winding through neighborhoods and commercial districts until we found the busiest street in town. Finally, after just a few strides on Alvaro Obregon, we entered through an iron gate that led directly to a descending outdoor staircase covered the entire length by flowering bougainvillea.
Once we reached the bottom, we crossed a cement bridge to the second level of the house, passing above the downstairs courtyard. This patio led to a front door and yet another staircase, this one inside a beautifully decorated home, which took us into the main living area. To my surprise, the attached dining room was filled with at least 20 people apparently celebrating someone's birthday. I wasn't going to be an only child after all.
I was extremely tired by this point and wanted nothing more than to take a nap, but instead I was whisked around the party and introduced to every member of this large extended family and several servants. The food was incredible: flautas, sopes, rice and refried beans, tortillas, cake and more. I stuffed myself, took lots of pictures, and was interviewed by nearly everyone there. I was forced to use my Spanish more than I ever had while living in Miami the year before, and I struggled with this new dialect. My head hurt, but I stuck in there like a trooper until the very last person had gone. Then my adopted mom led me outside to an adjoined cottage that would be my summer home, and I plopped down on the bed and dozed off while listening to news on the radio.
I awoke several hours later; it was dark and the house next door was quiet. I went in to see what was going on and found three of my new family members sitting in front of a flickering television set. They were glued there watching the telenovela Esmeralda, so I decided I shouldn't interrupt. Instead I headed out to the street in search of my first adventure.
At the top of the staircase I quickly hailed one of what seemed to be dozens of passing taxicabs. I remembered vaguely someone at the school earlier in the day had warned us not to hail cabs but to call radio taxes. They couldn't have meant me, I thought, as I told the driver to step on it and take me to the Zocalo at the center of town.
The place was a circus of activity. Couples and families were walking in circles around the main square, and lovers were sitting on park benches making out beneath the street lamps but partially hidden among the bushes and trees. Mariachis were wandering about, approaching some who paid "un pesito" for a song and entertaining anyone within earshot by default.
A lone child with filthy cheeks and a bright smile approached me while I was trying to take advantage of this wonderful free concert, and I gave him a peso for a small packet of gum. Within seconds there was a herd of them, all under the age of eight, chanting "chicle, chicle, chicle, chicle", almost in unison, until I gave in and bought some from each and every one.
This set me in motion, as I became hip to the fact that a moving target was tougher to hit. No one could ask me things while I was walking, but if I stopped on of a slew of vendors was there ready to beg me to buy some touristy object or another. Some of the stuff was cool to look at, but once I bought something I knew I'd attract ten more trying to sell me the same thing, so I just decided to keep to myself, for now.
I wandered past the Palacio del Gobierno and the Cathedral, which were at either end of the great plaza, and I stopped to listen as amateur men tried their hand at belting out boleros at the main gazebo across the street. They were booed from the stage if they sung off key or couldn't keep to the beet of the mariachis. But some were quite good, and were cheered to continue through to the end of the song. The applause made most men blush, and I began to think I was going to like the humility of the Mexican people, which noticeably from the start stood in contrast to the pride emitted by many Americans, myself included.
After a couple of hours of people watching, and tasting the local flavors offered by street vendors, I hailed a cab for home. This time my driver took a different route, and I felt anxious due to my inability to figure out my north from my south, east from west. Eventually, though, he got me home, and I sat beneath the bougainvillea for a while before heading down those long steps again. I didn't want to go to sleep, but I knew I must. Classes were to start in the morning, and I couldn't be late for my first day. So as I lay my weary head down on that firm feather pillow, my mind filled with thoughts anticipating a wonderful summer. The radio droned on. The smoky air filled my lungs. And soon, I was fast asleep and dreaming.
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