The Streets of Santa Fe

The streets of Santa Fe are filled with the sound of vendors announcing they have the cheapest and best strawberries, oils, mangoes, matches, or whatever they happen to have for sale. Theyt sit in the back of pick-up trucks turned stores and try to lure in customers. Their voices have competition when the gas man walks by yelling ``G-G-Gas`` repeatedly to signify his truck of of nearby tanks, or the garbageman comes past ringing a bell to let people know they can give him their trash.

Panderias fill the air with smells of fresh sweet breads, but I often leave lose my appetite upon seeing the whole carcasses that are hung and hacked at in front of butcher shops. Most homes retain their original drab concrete color,ing though the stores are brightly painted and decorated with elaborate lettering and cartoon pictures. Cars whiz past, except when they have to prod through pedestrians or struggle up a steep hill. Salsa music is pretty much always blaring. Packs of wild dogs roam around examining the trash that is thrown into the streets.

In the midst of all the chaos, I still manage to draw attention. People constantly call out to me `Hola Guera` or `Hey Guerita`, which basically means `Hi white girl`. Though I am told guera is a compliment, I have suspicions as I can think of many terms that minorities are called in the United States, and none are ones I would ever say or print.

Despite my natural ability to get attention, I keep finding myself in situations that draw even more notice. At work the other day, Sister Estella asked me to pick up Vickie from school. In order to to so, I had to accompany one of the residents, Clara, who has a photo ID that enables her to get inside the school. Sister Estrella says that Clara likes the trip because it lets her out for a while and makes her feel valuable. She keeps herself well-groomed all day in anticipation of going.

Off we went, with Clara leading while grunting and pointing, as she is mute. Along the way I bought Vickie a snack of water and corn chips. Once we had collected her, Vickie announced ``Quiero helado`` as the ice cream man had smartly packed his stand right in front of the kindergarten. Vickie chose coconut, while Clara (I hope) was happy with chocolate.

``What`s this?`` Vickie asked as she pulled out pieces of shaved coconut from her ice cream.

``I don`t want them,`` she said as she handed them to me.

``Well, I don`t want them either,`` I said, throwing them on the ground so that I could keep grasp of her wheelchair.

Though the house if a 5-minute walk from her school, Vickie tried to prolong the trek home by insisting on walking on certain parts of the sidewalk. She also had it in mind to zigzag across the streets instead of keeping a straight course. Leery or unnecessary crossings, I struggled to keep her on a straight path as she pushed herself to the side.

There I was, a white lady fighting with a handicapped little girl while being trailed by a mute, elderly lady. We drew a few stares but made it back in tact.

After work, I went of to a friends` house to retrieve a pair of sunglasses I had forgotten. Along the way, I ran into Antonio, who lives at the parish. I invited Antonio to take a walk with me, and as he`s a slow mover, he turned a three-minute trip into a fifteen minute one. He was also being trailed by five of the parish dogs. Upon reaching Paublo`s home, a dogfight ensued, with the parish dogs battling Paublos` pit bulls. We all screamed, Antonio kicked, and it was finally broken up. As Antonio, I and the perros walked backe, Antonio chatted incessantly. I could barely understand him, so I just politely listened and wondered how someone who lives at a church, works for the church (running errands and doing yard work) and spends his free time at Mass could have so much to say.

In the streets, I often encounter Lucius, a man I became acquainted with him when I encountered him drunk in front of the parish with a huge gash on his face. Only being able to help him in that moment, I told him I really liked the type of liquor he was holding and convinced him to give me the bottle. Though he hasn`t fallen for that trick again, we always make small talk and when he his lucid he is pleasant and tells me admires the work I do and if he can help by teaching me Spanish. When he`s far out of it, he slurs beyond comprehension and I push him away if he aggressively tries to hug me. During these interactions, everyone in the market street seems to be watching either curiously or with worry.

It`s through the streets that I had my first success as a proselytizing missionary as I brought someone into the folds of the Catholic Church. Lately, I have been walking up and down the streets of the Puebla Nueva, a steep hill near the home of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. A young teenage boy approached Sister Angelita and professed his love for me and asked for advice on wooing me. It seems he started going to Mass in hopes of seeing me. I haven`t heard from him though--perhaps I was a tool calling him to priesthood.

There is always something going on outdoors. I buy lollipops from Lupita or give her food as she sniffs kerchiefs soaked in paint thinner. I say hello to Raul, a homeless man who directs traffic. I receive free tamales from Conchita, a church lady with pink hair bound in curlers, who keeps a stand during the nights. I constantly run into shopkeepers and co-workers I know and guys feel compelled to shout whatever English they know at me. I see my English students and youth group members, busy on their cell phones and flirting with their friends, and I feel comforted knowing some things are just like the U.S.A.

I actually don`t go many places in Santa Fe. My workplace is a ten-minute walk from my house and the parish is along the way. Weekly, Jessica and I venture to the market and I take my walks down Puebla Nueva. I have a rather limited view of the community. Despite this, more than in other place I have lived, every day I feel as if I am going out into the world.

Swine Flu By

As a university student in Washington DC, I should have been in the city during the 9-11 attacks. Instead, I happened to be studying abroad in Perth, Australia. While my fellow students fled from campus after a plane crashed into the Pentagon and lived through an anthrax scare, I dealt with the shock from halfway across the world and returned to a much different America.

I´ve discovered that I have a knack for avoiding being around crises of that incite global fear. Three weeks ago, I left for the United States to vacation, and during my first day home, news of the swine flu was everywhere. At first I was skeptical that it would amount to anything more then a weekend story. Though pictures of Mexicans wearing face masks bombarded television, I assured my family that masks are commonly worn in the country due to pollution and smog.

Reports of the swine flu escalted--and so did my tempature. Throughout the month of April I had felt run-down and believed I had mononucleosis. My symptoms were flu-like and my family joked that I was a carrier of the swine flu.

Unfortunately, my family is a bit neurotic, and being around them probably inspired more fear than if I had actually been in Mexico City. My sister forbade me from touching her personal items and shooed me away from my niece. My father took the opportunity to ask me where I would like to be buried and what sort of funeral I´d like.

I decided medical advice wouldn´t hurt and set about calling clinics for a mononucleosis test. Upon hearing my symptoms and my symptoms and Mexico City mentioned, receptions advised me to head for the hospital.

I checked into the emergency room and was given a face mask to wear. The attendent told me that the hospital was full of people worried about swine flu, but I recieved a little special treatment due to my place of residency.

Though the E.R.. hallway was full of both elderly and bleeding people, I was put into a private isolated room. Two doctors came in to speak with me, and while the concluded that I probably didn´t have swine flu, CDC regulations required them to test me. They also advised me against returning to Mexico anytime soon.

A nurse came in to draw blood for a mono test. ¨ It´ll proably take about an hour and a half,¨ he said. ¨I´ll be back¨

¨So I should leave and return?¨ I asked.

¨No, you´re supposed to wait here, I think. But I´ll check on that.¨

Then one doctor came in for a mucus swab, which is basically done by sticking two q-tips up ones´ naval cavaties. I flet like my eyeballs were going to be gouged out.

After the doctor left, I waited for someone to tell me if I could leave and come back. After about an hour, I realized I was waiting for results. I flipped through my Spanish book, which was the only reading material I brought because I wanted to force myself to study. It helped me fall asleep.

At one point a nurse came to the door with a wheelchair-bounc patient in tow. ¨Oh,¨she said, startled to see me. ¨Are you supposed to be here? Do they know you´re here.¨

¨I think so,¨ I said. ¨I hope.¨ She went to check things out, leaving me wondering if there was a misunderstanding and I could have left hours earlier. I imagined trying to leave and having spacesuit-wearing government employees grab and sequester me.

Finally, four hours after samples were taken, the doctor came to tell me she hadn´t forgotten me and would come back soon with results. Forty-five minutes, I was declared free of swine flu (and mono.)

I ended up extending my stay in the United States for a few days before nervously going back to Mexico City. I was heartened by reports that the virus wasn´t nearly as bad as originally thought and that one would be okay by taking basic precautions like washing your hands and avoiding unnessary touching.

One of the first things I did once home was to stop by the parish. Guillito was so exicted that he grabbed me, squeezed me and covered me with kisses. He showed more exuberance over my return to Mexico than anyone did upon seeing me in the States. Guillito is a 76 year-old chain smoker and while telling me about his fears that I would never return and his plan to go to the United States to fetch me, he coughed with his trademark hack. Though touched by how much he cares, I was also concerned by the fact that his excited declarations caused spit to fall out of his mouth and onto my face.

Then it was off to Mass, though first I greeted everyone I hadn´t seen in weeks with hugs and kisses. The service was a bit different than usual as hosts were token by the hands of recipents rather than the tongue and there was no sign-of-the peace (the period during Mass when hands are shaken.)

After Mass, I ate tacos with everyone in the parish kitchen. There were plenty of tortillas to grab from a communal pile in order to assemble diner, but soap was missing. I rubbed my hands with lime before eating because it is supposed to be a natural disinfectant. During dinner Antonio--the handicapped, previously homeless man who Padre has given a place to live--sat next to me and, as always, coughed without covering his mouth.

Normally, I pride myself as being rather go-with-the-flow and accepting of the circumstances around me, but my return put me on edge. Everything I had heard in the States was being disregarded and I felt as if I was wallowing around in a giant petri dish of bacteria.

Padre comforted me by saying that the swine flu was mostly hype. He thinks it was exaggerated by the Mexican government to keep people from protesting economic conditions. The fact that the United States didn´t close the border showed to him that the U.S.A. realized it wasn´t all that dangerous.

Most people think the swine flu is a hoax and there are all sorts of rumours spreading around. Apparently Pemex- Mexico´s publicly owned owned oil company-went private during this time and it wasn´t reported on due to the flu. It is been said that the government exaggerated the flue to stop people from rioting due to general bad conditions or to distract citizens from unknown shady dealings. Others think it began in the United States and was brought over when President Obama visited. However, everyone agrees that it has been a huge financial blow as the people who eek by selling whatever have lost their only sources of income.

I returned to work with the Missionaries of Charity on Monday, the first day it was open to visitors after shutting down for the flu. The kids were especially clingy and eager to be held, though confused by my required face mask andtried to pull it off. Despite half my face being hidden, the older girls seemed to recognize and be happy to see me.

The schools have reopened and the streets are filling up again, though they are emptier than when I left. Life continues on. As for me, I´ve been somewhat hypochondriac since arriving here and the flu has definitely caused this to increase. This morning, I had a late start to work due to stomach problems and while walikng there I felt feverish. I debated whether or not to go in as now is not a good time to be passing along any sort of illness, but I decided to forge ahead and I pulled out my face mask. It snapped as I tried to put it on, and knowing that it would take a while to buy another one , I decided that was a sign from God to go home and rest and take my temperature.

After a long chat with the pharmacist, I learned two new words today--termómetro and caído la máscara-- and it turns out I´m fine. All and all, things are cooling off here, though the possiblity of economic collapse, oil protests and economic riots have given me some new things to worry about, though keeping my circulation from being cutting off from beneath my caído la máscara is taking priority.

A Sprinkling of Salsa

On the bus on the way to meet up with Javier, (a friend of Jessica´s from when she studied abroad in Mexico who has invited us to a bar!) Jessica tells us about him. Javier is very kind and generous and also lots of fun--once they made all types of salsa and spent a whole night going around and sampling it.

At least that´s what I deduce Jessica is saying. She is speaking Spanish for my benefit as I told her it´s hard for me to learn because many people talk to me in English. However, I can´t understand her story but I catch the word ¨salsa¨ and she moves her hands around. Since she loves to cook, I figure the story is condiment related. As it turns out, she was explaining that Javier likes to dance salsa, and is a great partner because he´ll grab you and throw you around and you don´t have to know how to dance.

Upon meeting Javier, everything she says seems true as he is tall and thin and looks as if he could easily glide around the dance floor. He tells us that he is inviting us out, which confuses me as I think ¨Of course you´ invited us, that´s why we are here.¨ However, he was using an expression to explain that all bar covers and drinks would be his treat.

Once Javier´s friend Hidalgo and Jess´s old roommate Maddie arrive, we pile into Javier´s big, blue van to go to a place called the Beer Hall, where another of his friends will be playing in a band. Javier says that he would have taken us in the Corvette he just bought from America, but it would have been to small for everyone to fit. The differences in his cars speak to the ways in which his personality seems to duel with itself. Javier teaches religion in a school, volunteers in an orphanage, and earns much of his income by selling beer to small shops. He wants to go to Rome to get a Master´s in Religion, and he might have been a priest except for the fact that he loves girls and wants to get married and have 30 children.

Both he and Hidalgo are very gentlemanly in a way uncommon to most men in the United States. As we make our way to the bar, they open and close our doors, walk on the part of the sidewalk closest to oncoming cars and wait for us to step up on sidewalks or enter a building before they do the same.

Anyone who has ever been in a bar that primarily sells beer can imagine what the Beer Hall is like--it´s small, crowded and dark and waitresses wearing tight, red polo shirts serve fried food and popcorn. While the band is between sets, huge, giant television screens play 80´s music videos. When I catch myself humming along to Madonna´s ¨Material Girl,¨ I remember that I am in Mexico to take a stand against materialism and feel a little unmissionary-like being at a bar. However, breaks from Santa Fe are important, as is having friends under 30 who haven´t taken vows.

Not that it´s easy making friends with the guys--I can barely understand them as it is, but the loud noise makes it impossible to make small talk. Once the band starts, everyone gives up on communicating. They play some sort of heavy metal with a good, but loud beat, but and no one can tell if they are singing in English or Spanish. Javier says that it´s not really his scene, but he´s there to support his friend and afterward we will go somewhere better.

We end up at the Mambo Lounge, a huge venue containing palm trees, where waiters wear long white sleeves. After a round of mojitos, we head out to the big, wooden dance floor, which is an interactive experienxce as lights flash and day glow sticks are thrown from the stage. After some pop music, a band arrives and begins playing ranchero and merangue music, to the delight of Javier, Hidalgo and everyone else, because this means it´s time for salsa.

I´ve taken tango (which is similar to salsa) lessons twice and I found it diffiuclt as I lack rhythm and a sense of direction. When it comes to salsa, I repeat the same strategy I utilized in tango which is to follow my partner and look into his eyes, which works as Javier and Hidalgo are experts at the dance. It also helps to smile a lot and wave my hair around and soon I am trying all sorts of complicated twiests and turns. One of the boy dancers on stage-a kid wearing tight, white jeans and ripped white T-shirt who I assume is at least 18-tugs at me shirtsleeve and winks, and I start to feel as if I am assimilating.

After a lot of dancing, we take a break, except for Jackie, who is stuck on the dance floor. My 22-year old, fresh from college roommate has been scooped up by a 30-something man who promises to take her on a motorcycle ride. We rescue her and then have a final dance to Hawaiin music, complete with fire explosions, hula dancers and lauis.

The night ends at four in the morning and everyone (except me) eats hot dogs topped with guacomole and hot peppers from a street vendor. We are to spend the night at Javier´s and he stops to get milk for our breakfast and then inflates the air mattresses he has gotten for us to sleep on. He is a champ, because he has to get up at 6:30 in the morning for work, and before we all head to bed, he says we should all meet up again soon.

Exhausted, I fall asleep almost immediately My first night on the town has been exhilerating and while it didn´t help me imporve my Spanish, I learned something about the language of salsa, which seems to be just as useful in fitting in and getting a taste of the culture.

Aqui in Santa Fe

Note: Please excuse spelling mistakes. I am on borrowed time at an Internet cafe and the English spell-checker doesn´t work!

Upon arriving in Mexico City last Monday, the three of us (Jessica, Jacki and I) lug two huge suitcases apiece along with multiple carry-on bags through customs. Eventually ,we are greeted by Sister Angela, tiny woman with a practical haircut who wears a long gray skirt and practical shoes. If she is overwhelmed by anything about us (our sizes, our stuff, our hair made big by the Texas heat we left) she doesn´t show it, but we have much luggage to take a taxi as she planned. Instead, she calls her nephew Mario to give us a ride to Sant Fe.

We spend about an hour making awkward chitchat (particularly for me because I´m nowhere near fluent in Spanish) and then Mario pulls up in a giant SUV. I finally get my first glance of the city. The buildings are bright but dilapidated, people are everywhere and it´s terrifying to see it from inside a care because traffic laws are more like traffic recommendations in Mexico. Cars weave in and out of right and left lanes, don´t slow for people or other automobiles, and gun it through traffic lights.

About an hour into the trip, it gets dark due to time and a rainstorm, so I can´t see enough to be nervous about the traffic. Instead, the thunder and wet roads scare me, as does the fact that our journey is taking much longer than I anticipated. My eyesight is already blurry due to problems with my contacts (and good-bye tears) which further inhibits my ability to see. I can´t understand the Spanish being spoken around me, so I enter a dreamy state whereby I occasionally chant to the American 70´s pop music being played on the radio.

I came out of it once we make it to Santa Fe, the neighborhood that we are staying in. The reason for the delay was due to the fact that a road was washed out by the rain. After dropping off our things at our house, we go to the Sisters´ home for dinner. Like a good sobrino, Mario spends a lot of time angling the car right beside doors, so that none of us will get wet. We have tortillas with the nuns and then attempt to go home--but the road where the sisters live is so steep and wet that Mario´s SUV can´t make it up the hill. After two attempts, we take an alternate route that adds 20 minutes to what should have been a three-minute ride.

Once we return to our house, I see a man in the window and immediately think ¨Wow, I know there´s crime here but who would have though someone would break in on the first day.¨ I embarrassed but touched to open the door and find that the man is one of several parishioners who have come to tidy up our house, clean up water from the leaky roof, bring food and decorate it with flowers. Exhausted, we all fall asleep quickly after they leave.
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Our house is simple, so the big, elaborate bouquets of roses and carnations seem out of place. Jessica and I decide that the are probably offers to the church or leftover from funerals and weddings. Though much work has been done on the house, it´s missing some stuff, that when I think about it, might make it easier for people to cohabit ate together. For example, my old roommates would always get mad at me for someone getting the bathroom floor soaked after my showers. In this house, there is no shower door or curtain, so the bathroom floor is always wet. I used to be irritated when my brother would leave the toilet seat up--there is no toilet seat here. People sharing laundry facilities are bothered when someone moves their stuff out of the washer to use it their selves--we have no washing machine or dryer.

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So far, our days have been spent paying visits. Sister Angela is a doctor so shes takes us to see patients and she also introduces us to neighbors. Parishioners have stopped by to see us, we get waved to church members when we are out walking and parish staff comes by to fix up our house. The sense of community here is very strong as is the presence of the Church. Yesterday we stopped at the the day care center where Jackie will be working as well as the center that the Missionaries of Charity run, where I will primarily work. Though the day care center is crowded with babies, toddlers and pre-school children, they are well-behaved and it´s very well-organized. There is a lot of joy there.

By contrast, I found the home run by Missionaries of Charity to be beautiful but somewhat depressing. It is a home for severely disabled woman, abandoned handicapped girls, and elderly women. Rooms are full of beds of people who have no one to take care of them. During my visit, Jessica translated for me, but when she had to leave she asked when of the mentally handicapped girls to show me the ropes. It was humbling but touching to have here take my hand and show me around. It was also heart-warming to see other disabled women tend to those who were bed-ridden. I admire the nuns who work there, and hope that there strength will rub off on me.

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I haven´t yet been here for a week and though I miss everyone, I don´t feel homesick yet. It still hasn´t quite sunk in that I will be gone for two years. Instead it feels like I did when I went to Germany and visited my friend Martina for a few weeks--I enjoyed experiencing her lifestyle and tagging along and meeting her friends, felt a little left out because I didn´t speak the language, but knew it would be over soon enough. That´s not the case here and I am hoping the first three months will be the hardest. I am looking forward to milestones to get through them--my birthday, Mexican Independence Day, the Day of the Dead, and Christmas. After that, I am hoping to feel more at home.

My Future Plans...

As a freshman at George Washington U., I woke up early in the morning to work on Capitol Hill and sat in while national policy was being debated. A year after graduation, I found myself staying up until early in the morning while staff members at the bar where at I worked discussed whether it's best to use gin or vodka in martinis. (Vodka won, with a twist.)

I've always struggled to figure out what to do career wise. This uncertainty has given me an eclectic resume (congressional intern, cocktail waitress, reporter, interactive analyst) and allowed me to write colorful cover letters for job applications. Invariably, I have found myself at interviews trying to smile and come up with clever answers, all the while looking around a cramped office thinking "Do I really want to sit here day after day?"

I've had dreams of avoiding these trappings by becoming a famous actress or big shot politician. However, the people I truly admire are those who are out there quietly serving the needy and God, people we rarely here about. The altruistic part of me had sometimes contemplated a similar path, but I brushed the desire aside thinking it would be to hard to leave the people and material comforts in my life behind. At the same time, I've had a desire to be like the people who drop everything to travel the world and immerse themselves in new cultures. I've never been brave enough (or perhaps I'm too American) to do this.

However, during my last round of job interviews I felt a calling that has put me on a path whereby I'll have a chance to live like those I look up to. For the next two years, I'll be living in Mexico City, Mexico as a lay missionary with the Incarnate Word Missionaries, a group sponsored by Catholic nuns. Right now, I am at a three-week orientation attending classes covering a range of topics including the history of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word, cross- cultural issues, missiology and Catholic social teaching. I am in staying at the Mexican American Cultural Center (MACC) along with eight other women who will be going to various parts of the world. I feel blessed by this opportunity and will keep you all updated on my journey. Upon sharing my plans with others, there have been lost of questions, so I'll take this time to answer the most common one regarding my future plans; though I am in awe of and have an incredible amount of respect for those who have taken religious vows, I do not intend on becoming a nun.