Don’t you hate when you’re trying to summon a word and all you can remember is its ending? Makes it hard to look up. “It’s something -ity.” I wonder if there exists a word reference for people with backwards brains like mine.
I love this picture so much that I’m naming an entire post after it.
Coincidentally, I just got an e-mail from Small, in which she refers to the groundhog as a whistlepig. I’d forgotten that word. Needless to say, I immediately went online to see if the domain name is still available. It’s not. I am bitter. I would have been the perfect caretaker for whistlepig.com. I would have laid it, well-polished, next to my others. Would you like to know what a few of those others are? Well, okay:
baldyhairy.com
bloodredrobe.com
danceswithpigs.com
deadrodentwalking.com
doorofdeath.com
ginnathemovie.com
highway5150.com
homeplacemedia.com
pigopolis.com
rainbowfur.com
ratproblem.com
rollinghillsmedia.com
softshoemedia.com
Molly just sent me this next photo. Almost every MAT41 but I can curl his/her tongue. But this? It just ain’t fair.
I talked to Eleni on the phone today. She was kind enough to listen as I unleashed both venom about school and nectar about my friends here who have been my only mooring to sanity in the last several weeks. I told her about something that still surprises me: that people here generally think of me as someone who ‘doesn’t take any shit.’
“Well, wasn’t that one of your goals: not to be so much of a pussy?” she asked delicately. Recalling my recent row with faculty here, she continued, “I mean, everyone knows you don’t fuck with Ginna’s dreams.” Ah, my little dewy petal of a child… the embodiment of innocence. Who but she could begin a letter to her ole grandma with these words: “Shitsy-witsy!”
I hate poodles. I’ve never liked them. I know that’s doggist of me, but it’s true. And now I dislike them more than ever. Here’s why:
I know from having spent time in places without much infrastructure that you always look down when you’re walking. Otherwise you’re liable to fall into a hole or trip over a dead rat or the like. But a few days ago as I made my way downtown carrying a heavy bag, something on high caught my eye. It was a poodle. If it had lived in a Parisian flat it would have been white and dressed in pink. This one was a yellow-grey and chained on the roof so it wouldn’t fall off. It walked to the edge. It looked at me. It turned so its butt pointed at me and then hunched its back. A fruit bat has shat on my head, and a pigeon, but I draw the line at poodles. I jumped out of the way of the imminent projectiles, in the process rolling my ankle on an unseen terrestrial hazard. I felt two little pops and I said a bad word for each. (“Oh darn,” I think it was.) I decided it would be best if I kept walking, so I limped another block and twisted my other ankle. Mad but undaunted, I got to town, feeling the occasional icepick sensation on both sides of my ankle and up my calf.
But now it’s much better. I lucked out. This is no place to have one’s mobility restricted. Stupid dog.
All I ever do is take Spanish classes (I’m getting progressively worse), teach and — with most of my time — prepare to teach. I’m traumatized, because last week my carefully planned lesson fell in ruins about my feet, and I just stood there confused. I was so disoriented by the end that I don’t remember what I assigned for homework. I’m not sure this teaching thing is so good for someone with an untethered brain.
Another thing that keeps me busy is the three blogs I’m now keeping up: this one, a secret one for my master’s where I write things I’d never otherwise remember, and the third for my students here, about which I’ve already told you.
Which reminds me, our advisor arrived in Mexico a few days ago and observed my first class this week, which was unnerving. Right afterwards (at 9:30 pm) we met to discuss her evaluation and my ideas. She kicked off the discussion with something unrelated: “You’re a good writer, but you write too much.”
Now, if I’d wanted a writing advisor I’d have asked another writer. Her assessment of my writing has already infected my enthusiasm to write. I’m already thinking “Is this ‘too much’?” It’s like when my first ex-husband told me 1) that my eyes were too close together and 2) that my singing voice was “strident.” Until that moment those were the two things I’d most prided myself on. Nevermore.
The writing part aside, she gave me a backhanded compliment about how I handled the five nine-year-olds in my group: “I’ve observed many teachers and you didn’t do any worse than half of them, all of whom were experienced teachers.” I have to ponder that. I think it’s good. Her pedagogical feedback was, as I expected it would be, astute, and in that realm I need buckets of help.
I can’t even remember what’s happened since I saw you last. I mean, saw you here on this blog.
On Friday, Sarah, Kim and I ate ice cream (Santa Maria brand), which is the best in the universe. They make it in little batches every day. I sample as many sabores as I can before committing myself to one. The city was really busy that night, especially around the big church. The market stalls were packed with crowds so thick I couldn’t see what they were seeking. Finally, when the sea of humanity momentarily parted, I beheld hundreds of naked baby Jesuses, from finger-sized to John-Henry-as-an-infant sized. Even old men were cradling them in their arms.
In a neighboring stall I saw a man with his Jesus laid out on the table. There, the holy creature was being fitted in clothes: a little jacket, teeny metallic sandals and a sparkling crown. Enchanted but mystified, I later asked my Mexican “mother” what was going on. Here’s my version of her story:
Every Catholic household has at least one baby Jesus, used for the crèche at Christmas. Sadly, Jesus is fragile, so many of the vendors are Jesus-repairers, touching up a scratched eyeball or reattaching an arm. The story on the clothes is that when you buy a new Jesus, you must take it to the church to be blessed on February 2, Día de la Candelaría, which marks the end of the Christmas season. And of course Jesus can’t just go to mass butt-naked, so you have to buy him an outfit. He gets stylish clothes befitting a young deity, and then in the church the priest douses him with holy water. Then he (the doll, not the priest) gets wrapped up and put away till crèche time next year. The following February, when he’s two, you have to buy him another new set of clothing, so he’s fit to be blessed again. The third year: the same, but after that, he don’t need no more blessing. For the rest of his porcelain life, all he has is crèche duty and the occasional visit to the Jesus doctor to have his body repaired.
The next day I went on an mini-adventure with Kim. We rode the combi (a little van thing like the colectivo in Guatemala, into which people sardine) to a Walmart-like superstore that had some great clothing items with erroneous English. I bought underwear with inexplicable messages. The place was dotted with towering wedding cakes.
I found yet another sign for YoNenny. For some reason, Lulu-related ones are in short supply, but I’ll keep looking.
On Sunday Magdalena took Sarah, Kim and me on a sightseeing tour. First stop: Huasca de Ocampo, a so-called “Pueblo Mágico” which as I understand it is a ghost town restored by the government. Real del Monte, where I went last week, is another. Both were abandoned mining villages. Oh wait: here’s more info on Wikipedia.
Huasca is frequented mostly by Mexicans, so we three Americans were objects of curiosity, particularly to the children. We stopped at a taco stand where the choices were paralyzing: nopal cactus (I tried nopal rellenos the other day and I could’ve lived without them) and pumpkin flowers (flor de calabaza — I had one of those) and I can’t even begin to tell you what else. See for yourself. That’s Magdalena ordering in the third picture.
The regional foods continue to be excellent, but there are certain things I will not eat: the fried larvae of ants, for example, and the pequeño grubs that live inside an agave-like cactus. I almost ordered it by accident because it seemed innocent: escamoles a la mantequilla. Luckily I found out in time that that means “worms in butter.” And last night I learned that some locals savor wood rats (but never city rats). You can even order them in restaurants.
Here’s life in Huasca. There are musicians and dogs everywhere.
Then Magdalena drove us to an exceptionally overpopulated (but again, nary a gringo) place that was amazing: Prismas Basálticos. Here are lots of pictures.
I have more to show and tell you about that day but I’m exhausted. It’s after 1:00 a.m. And anyway, I’ve heard I write too much.
Later do you want to hear about our next stop: Hacienda Santa María Regla? I’ll show you pictures. Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, you can read about a little about it, in words other than my own:
Pedro Romero de Terreros, primer conde de Regla, quien la denominó así, en recuerdo de la virgen que se venera en Chipiona, provincia de Cádiz, España, donde él nació. Fue la primera Hacienda de beneficio de plata que existió en la región.
Today I was talking to my Russian friend who referred to her mother as “elderly.” My Russian friend is the age of my children, so I thought perhaps her mother had given birth at age fifty-five. —“How old is your mother?” I inquired. —”Fifty-five,” she answered. I let out a howl because my feelings were hurt. That’s because it’s all about me, as you well know. But in this one case I turned out to be wrong. “It’s different in our country.” she told me. “She really is old.” I hadn’t considered factors like harsh living conditions and shorter life-expectancies that could, in fact, turn someone who’s 55 into an elderly person. Sobering. (Not that I needed any more sobering, thank you very much.)
We’re always so busy with schoolwork and classes that our SLA teacher released us from the classroom to search for our favorite leaf, and then instructed us to stick each one to the blackboard where they were soon dwarfed by chalky linguistics terminology.
Later, Lauren and I went on an impromptu walk when I should have been doing homework. It was her idea and it was a good one. We climbed through woods for half a mile and broke through to a giant mowed field with Vermont-like barns in the distance. After a little more walking, lo and behold I knew where I was: back by the sunflowers… but, alas, the llamas and sheep and the fence that had contained them were gone.
The significance of the middle picture is that Lauren noticed how like shower heads were the giant sunflowers. The significance of the one on the right is that Lauren is a good photographer.
My silly elder daughter sent me this video today, precipitating one of those rare moments when, all alone, I laugh out loud.
I am not very good at Kiswahili, but I guess it’s better to be distinguished as the slowest student in class than to be undistinguished altogether. Sawa?
Tomorrow I have no classes until 7 pm, so I’m hoping I can pry myself from all the things I absolutely have to do so that I can do what I want, which is to drive northeast to look at the leaves. They’re reaching peak, but a good windstorm will do them in.
