Ah, the Mexico City metro. When you look at a map of the metro system, it seems like a pretty comprehensive system with plenty of stops and good coverage of the city. Then when you look at a map of the city with the metro stops marked on it, you realize just how spread out it really is. However, when compared to the cost per ride ($2 pesos, or about 20 cents US), you are tempted to take it everywhere, no matter how far you have to walk to actually arrive at your destination. As an alternative to morning rush hour traffic on the main roads that I take to work in a taxi, I've been giving the metro a test drive. The down side is that I have to go southwest for two stops, switch lines, and then go north for two more stops. There is no hypotenuse in the Condesa - Polanco commuting line.
Monday, at 8:15 am, it was dead quiet. Got to work in record time. Tuesday, same time, it was a little busier, but not overwhelming. Although the train did sit in the last two stations for 5 minutes a piece. Wednesday, everyone was late for work, I swear. People were sprinting through the station, piling onto the train and smushing like sardines, myself included. 2 stops, a line change, 2 more stops and 50 minutes later, I peeled my hip off the bar and shoved my way out the door, begging permiso (excuse me) from everyone. Then I observed a very interesting dichotomy. Men in business suits sprinting to the salida (exit) to be the first one on the escalator. Then, they just rode it all the way up, shoulder to shoulder, so that no one could pass. If this was the London Tube, surely there would have been a riot, lest you stand in the walking lane for even a split second. I think they really just wanted to be first on the escalator, and really weren't late for anything. Besides, a late Mexican is an on-time Mexican, so that whole tardiness theory is flawed...
Thursday, I needed a break from public transportation, so I took a taxi to work. A quick 10 minutes later I was at my office 30 minutes early. No traffic. Friday, I decided to save my $48 pesos in taxi fare and take the metro once more. No one! I was later than usual, but apparently so were all the Mexicans. The fastest I had ever gotten to work in the metro, hands down. The metro car wasn't even hot and sweaty yet, and I didn't have to race anyone to the escalator.
It is very interesting being the only gringa on the metro. Generally, Mexicans who have cars prefer to drive to work (part of the traffic problem), so that leaves everyone else taking public transport. However, there are still many different types of people on the metro. I have been lucky (or not) to be considered a fresa, which is kind of like "yuppie," or, if you're ignoring the men on the street cat-calling at you - snobby, rich girl. However, a fresa is still Mexican, so in that sense, the color of my skin only seems to indicate that I've spent more time in a library than out in the Mexican sun (if it ever comes out again), and I'm almost equal to all of them. I still keep my jewelry in my bag and wear good walking shoes instead of good high heels, until I get to work, por si a caso.
On a side note, the most recent hurricane that passed through was no match for the Mexican taxista who brought me home from work that day. Flash flooding, 6 or 8 inches of rain on the main street, Avenida de la Reforma, dime-size hail, zero visibility. But everyone else drove in the middle lane, the high ground, leaving the left and right lanes free for a daring taxi to pass. A perfect opportunity to beat the traffic, get me home quickly, and return to pick up the next investment banker looking to get home in the monsoon. Time is money, and water on the roadway is no obstacle. For $38 pesos (about $3.80 US), I just have one request - Seat belt, please!
More to come, hopefully sooner than later. Qué les vayan super bien!
Ciao,
L
09 September 2007
02 September 2007
"super padre," "nada más," and "para servirle"
To most of us, even those who don't speak Spanish, "super padre" has a pretty straightforward meaning: super dad. To the mexicans, however, "super padre" is the equivalent of the New Englander's "wicked cool," the southern CA surfer's "totally awesome," or any other representation of something that just rocks your world. As with any culture, even sub-cultures, there are certain idiomatic expressions that just don't make sense until you live them. "Super padre" is quickly creeping into my regular daily vocabulary, to describe such things as the free zoo and butterfly sanctuary in the Bosque de Chapultepec (think: Central Park x5), the skyline view with the mountain backdrop from the rooftop of our apartment, and the chic artist fair right down the road in the upscale Parque de Mexico surrounded by posh coffee shops that make you forget you're even south of the border.
I've come to realize that speaking Spanish and speaking Mexican are almost two completely different things. A waiter will hover at your table, after taking your drink, appetizer and main course orders, until that key moment when you declare "nada más" (no more) with a gracious smile. And then he will nod, equally amicably, responding "para servirle" (in order to serve you) right before he runs off to fetch your drinks (which arrive 10 minutes later if you're lucky). It seems weird, and it even feels weird, but it's part of the innate formality that is so charming about this country. On the surface it all seems so formal, Usted and Ustedes always (for all the Spanish grammar geeks reading this) and taxi drivers parking their cars, jumping out in traffic and rushing around curbside to open your door, lest a lady have to expend energy. But then your freshest produce comes from the man who rides past every 45 minutes, announcing "aguacates, tomales, chileeeeees" over the loudspeaker bungeed to the roof of his pickup, and your 10-gallon fresh water from the "aguaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" man on a bicycle. Gas comes in a tank that you have to lean out the window to light when you want hot water. The beauty of Mexico is the clash and coexistence of these two norms, which I am continually trying to navigate each day.
Similarly, every expectation or preconception I previously held about Mexico and Mexicans has either been completely destroyed or validated, with no middle ground. Take music as an example. Mexican music = mariachi, true or false? It's at every party, in every cantina, on signs and billboards every couple blocks advertising the neighborhood mariachi band for hire. But right down the road is the Sala de Chopin, and my landlady is a professional opera singer. Today, as the aguacate man drove beneath my window, Beethoven wafted up from downstairs. And in a few weeks, I'm going to one of the main universities here to see Canadian pianist extraordinaire, Angela Hewitt, perform Bach in the classical music series. And the jazz festival at the National Auditorium just recently wrapped up. So, true that mariachi is practically the national anthem, but false that it's the only music valued here. Very, very, VERY true: ALL Mexican men can dance ALL Latin dances and will not hesitate to do so at any moment, opportune or not. I love Mexico.
As you all celebrate Labor Day, and your three-day-weekend (well, not if you're at Lafayette, of course), I will be thinking of you from the Mexican stock exchange where I will undoubtedly be one of the only women, not to mention the youngest, on the floor at 9 AM. Work is going well - fast pace and challenging, just the way I like it. But I do have to wake up in 7 hours to be there, so unfortunately this is adios for now. Stay tuned for more musings on such topics as: the food, the metro, and urban "planning."
un beso,
L
I've come to realize that speaking Spanish and speaking Mexican are almost two completely different things. A waiter will hover at your table, after taking your drink, appetizer and main course orders, until that key moment when you declare "nada más" (no more) with a gracious smile. And then he will nod, equally amicably, responding "para servirle" (in order to serve you) right before he runs off to fetch your drinks (which arrive 10 minutes later if you're lucky). It seems weird, and it even feels weird, but it's part of the innate formality that is so charming about this country. On the surface it all seems so formal, Usted and Ustedes always (for all the Spanish grammar geeks reading this) and taxi drivers parking their cars, jumping out in traffic and rushing around curbside to open your door, lest a lady have to expend energy. But then your freshest produce comes from the man who rides past every 45 minutes, announcing "aguacates, tomales, chileeeeees" over the loudspeaker bungeed to the roof of his pickup, and your 10-gallon fresh water from the "aguaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" man on a bicycle. Gas comes in a tank that you have to lean out the window to light when you want hot water. The beauty of Mexico is the clash and coexistence of these two norms, which I am continually trying to navigate each day.
Similarly, every expectation or preconception I previously held about Mexico and Mexicans has either been completely destroyed or validated, with no middle ground. Take music as an example. Mexican music = mariachi, true or false? It's at every party, in every cantina, on signs and billboards every couple blocks advertising the neighborhood mariachi band for hire. But right down the road is the Sala de Chopin, and my landlady is a professional opera singer. Today, as the aguacate man drove beneath my window, Beethoven wafted up from downstairs. And in a few weeks, I'm going to one of the main universities here to see Canadian pianist extraordinaire, Angela Hewitt, perform Bach in the classical music series. And the jazz festival at the National Auditorium just recently wrapped up. So, true that mariachi is practically the national anthem, but false that it's the only music valued here. Very, very, VERY true: ALL Mexican men can dance ALL Latin dances and will not hesitate to do so at any moment, opportune or not. I love Mexico.
As you all celebrate Labor Day, and your three-day-weekend (well, not if you're at Lafayette, of course), I will be thinking of you from the Mexican stock exchange where I will undoubtedly be one of the only women, not to mention the youngest, on the floor at 9 AM. Work is going well - fast pace and challenging, just the way I like it. But I do have to wake up in 7 hours to be there, so unfortunately this is adios for now. Stay tuned for more musings on such topics as: the food, the metro, and urban "planning."
un beso,
L
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