BETH PALMER (journalism student) writes:
Spending three weeks in Mexico knowing three years' worth of basic Spanish has led to laughable moments, as meaning is lost in translation. Here’s a recent highlight:
The child who thought I was crazy
In Guanajuato, a lush and colorful city comparable to Italy’s Florence, I sipped Cuban coffee in a café called El Conquistador. I dipped a fresh chocolate-iced cake donut in my steaming cup.
The tiny shop had six chairs, three tables, and as much open floor space as bathroom. Soon that entire space filled with a family of five, dragged in by the youngest daughter who wanted a donut. The pig-tailed girl of about five years walked up to my table, towing a blond doll about half her size.
“Donde compraste este dona?” she asked.
“No se,” I answered, assuming she was wondering how much my donut had cost.
She looked startled, her brown eyes wide, and just walked away in silence. Then, realizing her question actually meant, “Where did you buy that donut?” I laughed out loud. I had answered, “I don’t know.”
As her father bought her a chocolate-iced donut like mine, the little girl held on to his leg but kept looking back at me with obvious confusion and wonder.
“Why didn’t that crazy lady know where she bought her donut?” she probably thought. “The crazy lady is sitting in the café where she bought the donut!"
CHRISTY FLEMING (journalism student) writes:
There are so many cultural differences just bordering our own country. I am constantly wondering if I am doing anything rude on accident. A perfect example would be when I was getting ready in the morning and Raul, an employee of the hostel, greeted me.
As I am every morning that I wake up to an alarm, I was scatterbrained. His hand reached for mine and I politely put my hand in his thinking that we were shaking hands, but when he leaned forward for a kiss on the cheek, I immediately felt ignorant of Mexican customs.
It reminded me of an episode of Seinfeld. Jerry Seinfeld does everything he can to avoid getting a kiss hello from anyone he doesn’t know very well. During one part, he nervously admitted to one woman that he wasn’t partial to the kiss-on-the-cheek greeting. Of course, like all episodes of Seinfeld, it got him into some trouble.
I'll just have to learn to get used to the “kiss hello,” but the incident opened my eyes. I realized that I am a guest in this country and I should respect it every way that I can.
I just hope that I can be very aware and observant of the locals while I’m here. That includes trying to speak Spanish to them. I think that learning the Mexican culture is not only interesting, but also respectful to all of those who live here. It also plays a major role in why I’m even here in the first place.
The lesson I learned today: read the book Kiss Bow or Shake Hands before visiting any foreign country. It’s a book explaining the do’s and don’ts in other countries. It may come in handy…especially for someone like Jerry Seinfeld.
TERESA PUENTE (journalism professor) writes:
I rented a car in Guadalajara and before my travel writing class started drove to the neighboring state of Michoacan for a few days of vacation with my boyfriend Doug.
The landscape from Guadalajara to Morelia was breathtaking. Rolling green mountains unfold along the two-lane, well-paved autopista, or toll road. The ride is smooth, but just as we exit the toll road I hear a funny sound.
"What's that noise?" I ask Doug. "Is that the car or the road?"
"Pull over," Doug urges me. "I think we have a flat tire."
He was right, and I'm thankful he's with me because I've never changed a flat tire, or ever had one for that matter.
Our plan was to drive through the colonial capital of Morelia and down to the coastal beaches. Some of those roads are one lane in each direction with no shoulder and a drop off of hundreds of feet. If the tire blew in the city, we would have caused a major traffic jam in the medina of one-way narrow streets.
"Thank God this happened here," I said as I watched Doug change the tire in the sweltering sun.
In a half an hour we were on our way and we found a parking space behind the luminous cathedral of Morelia. Inside they were tuning a gigantic organ and its haunting sound echoed through the air.
We peeked inside doorways. Some revealed amazing courtyards and Spanish-style archways. Behind elegant 500-year-old facades were Internet cafes and restaurants.
As we walked through the market full of handmade guitars, local sweets, and rebozos, typical scarves worn by local women, it started to storm. It was sunny and clear when we parked the car and we took cover in the market. A young couple in front of us kissed as they waited out the rain.
We waited a while and when the rain let up dashed out. We stopped in a cafe under the archways facing the cathedral. A young band of men in velvety black minstrel outfits serenaded the customers. They looked about 15 years old and we admired their sweetness.
We walked back to the car smitten by the romance of the city and drove to another town, Patzcuaro - near a lake of the same name - where planned to spend the night.
As night fell we walked along the cobblestone streets where all the houses were painted white with red tile roofs. The smells of vendors cooking chicken and enchiladas in the market made my stomach growl. We spotted a crowd around a taco stand and I knew it must be good.
"That's what I miss living in Chicago - street tacos," I told Doug. "Tacos just don't taste the same as they do here."
I knew he was wary because on a trip to Mexico City several years ago, Doug got sick eating from street vendors. It lasted five days and and he lost 10 pounds.
We walked around the two town squares and 20 minutes later came back to the taco stand. Doug caved into his desire and we ordered three steak tacos each.
I've been told that squeezing lime will help kill any germs and Doug squirted it on his taco along with a helping of salsa.
We gobbled down the tacos and shared three more with onions, cilantro, and a guacamole salsa. I assured him that he wouldn't get sick.
"If you do, it will be worth it."
CHRISTY FLEMING (journalism student) writes:
For the duration of my stay in Mexico, I have felt that I can get by with my broken Spanish and a little help from my friends. Today I experienced what a true language barrier was really like.
This afternoon Amanda and I went into a fabric store to find some buttons, needles, and thread for my broken messenger bag. I approached a counter where I saw a variety of buttons under glass. I decided on the buttons I wanted and waited patiently.
Asking for the buttons wasn’t the hard part. I had time to practice exactly what I was going to say.
“Quiero cuatro de los botones grandes por favor,” I kept saying in my head.
I picked everything out, the woman wrote me a receipt, said something to me that very well could have been gibberish and pointed behind me.
As soon as she saw my deer-in-headlights face, she knew that my Spanish wasn’t as good as I made it seem. She repeated herself slowly and pointed again. The store was so loud and busy that I just nodded and walked away. I didn’t want to keep anyone behind me waiting.
Amanda and I went to a counter where we saw customers handing employees receipts. We waited in line for about two minutes and then it was my turn. I smiled as I handed my receipt over and was quickly disappointed when she handed it back pointed in a different direction and said something that I could not understand.
As Amanda and I wondered through the maze of shelves, fabric, and people, we finally found a counter with a register. Once I knew I was in the right place I felt my tense shoulder and neck muscles relax.
Okay, so now I paid for my things…where do I pick up my stuff? We walked back to the first counter where we saw the woman helping me with another customer. I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to go back to the first spot. I circled around for a couple seconds and found a counter with bags of merchandise everywhere.
“I bet that’s where I get it,” I thought to myself, finally being able to put two and two together.
My journey in the fabric store was over. I picked up my buttons and was glad to finally step out of the stuffy and crowded fabric store into the fresh air again. Who knew it would take almost a half hour to buy buttons?
BETH PALMER (journalism student) writes:
New white candles flame in dried pools of wax, but there isn’t enough light to capture the concierto on camcorder.
The camcorder could show my absent roommates the magic of Radaid, a young Mexican quartet composed of a breathtaking vocalist and inspiringly talented violinist, percussionist, and guitarist. Radaid sounds like a finely produced independent movie soundtrack as their instruments send Indian and techno-sounding vibrations bouncing around the high azul ceilings and tiled archways of Haus der Kunst – a trendy café and modern art gallery owned by a German native, but 20-year Guadalajara resident, named Helmut.
The violinist stands back in the shadows from his mates; the tight-jeaned male guitarist doubles as a second percussionist and the curly black-haired female percussionist play a variety of hand drums held between her knees. She wears a white ring for a hard rapping sound and shakes tambourines and bead-filled gourds. The vocal range of a large German opera star floats from the singer’s rail-thin 20-something frame.
Her pure ancient voice cuts into the diners’ friendly chatter.
Silence.
No one looks at each other; everyone stares with inquisition at the source of the angel-soul-toned song. Even the lovers who were nose and nose, lips to lips, have parted.
Although completely blind, this woman received a double-strength larynx from God in exchange for her fifth sense.
And I thought she was the star.
But the violinist stepped forward from the shadow and his bow became a teetering blur and his strings sang.
I was in love with him before we left.
AMANDA NEILSEN (journalism student) writes:
After toast and coffee for desayuno we began our exploration of Guadalajara on Monday, walking down Calle Libertad in comfy walking shoes, sunshine overhead. We turned right onto Avenida Chapultepec and right again onto Avenida Vallarta, the “Michigan Avenue of Guadalajara,” our profesora Teresa called it.
My excited eyes darted back and forth at all of the new sights: the colorful buildings, the palm trees, and the ornate, beautiful cathedrals. My preconception was correct—Mexico is more colorful than Chicago. The Windy City, while colorful in its own respect, stands in stark contrast to the bold, vibrant, green, red, orange, and blue hues of Guadalajara.
Although I was observing these new sights from the beginning of our walk as we left our hostel, Casa Libertad, my attention was captivated by the interesting sidewalks. Soon I found myself watching closely for new patterns and colors and taking pictures of these varying sidewalks.
I found octagonal sidewalk tiles that looked as if they had been traced from a stop sign, red-and-beige checkered patterns, and small blue ceramic squares laid in the corners of larger red-glazed squares.
These eclectic sidewalks inspire me. How can there be such a variety of shapes, textures, colors, and materials along just a few city blocks? The standard beige concrete slabs of the sidewalks at home now seem so exclusive to me.
My Tuesday travels through Guadalajara revealed even more of these “inspirational paths.” My former hesitation about exploring calles nuevos has waned and I am now eager to investigate more during my next few weeks in Mexico.
While absorbing the unfamiliar atmosphere and fascinating scenery of a new country all around me, I am going to remember to continue looking down. Beauty is constantly found in unexpected places, and perhaps there is beauty on the path I am treading as well.
SILVANA TABARES (journalism student) writes:
After arriving from a short four-hour flight last night from Chicago to Guadalajara I am ready to begin my quest in Mexico.
Located in a safe and peaceful location, Casa Libertad is a welcoming hostel providing complimentary continental breakfast in the morning, a tour of several art galleries, furniture illustrating Frida Kahlo’s image, an amazing view of the city on the hostel’s rooftop, and eclectic music such as Brazilian singer Bebel Gilberto, ballads composed by Mexican musical artist Juan Gabriel, and plenty of jazz and electronic music.
The U.S. Consulate is one block away; a pharmacy is three blocks, as well as a convenient 24-hour OXXO across the street - equivalent to a 7-Eleven in the U.S.
Having a good pair of comfortable walking shoes, a light jacket, and an umbrella helps brave the rainy season as the weather forecast predicts heavy rain and thunderstorms throughout my three-week stay.
I begin with my number-one destination to Mercado Libertad, or Libertad Market. From the hostel I began walking on Libertad Avenue to Chapultepec and turned right on Vallarta Avenue. Many businesses selling mattresses and electronics were spread out all through Vallarta Avenue and I also noticed quite a few bridal boutiques - Cellini, Raffaella, Bride 890 Retro, and simply admired their bridal collections displayed inside the window.
I arrived at the Cathedral of Guadalajara to visit the patron saints of Mexico. Heading towards the Plaza de la Liberacion I notice artists hand-painting creative designs on spoons and another artist making hand drawings from photographs.
At La Rinconada on Calle Morelos I have lunch and order a not-so-appetizing all-you-can-eat buffet for almost $6. The buffet included guacamole, mushroom soup, white rice, beans, spicy chicken, pasta, and a variety of fruit. I expected a more hearty and authentic buffet, but at least I enjoyed the music played by the talented gentleman inside the restaurant. He played famous tunes on the piano like Imagine by John Lennon and the theme of Fiddler on the Roof.
After lunch I continued my journey to the market and passed through Plaza Tapatia, where I set my eyes on an enormous fountain called Fuente Inmolacion de Quetzalcoatl.
I kept on walking and stood still for a moment to view the market that I desperately walked miles for. It was massive, three-stories, and the size of an almost-two-block radius Mercado, where you need more than just an hour to browse what it has to offer.
On the third floor you will find countless of booths selling reproduced films and music, as well as clothing and electronics. If you are hungry while shopping, on the second floor there are food stands selling authentic Mexican cuisine, seafood, and even Asian food. The first floor was filled with stands selling typical Mexican merchandise like indigenous blouses, colorful shawls, cowboy boots, and handmade leather purses – exactly what I was looking for.
During shopping it started to rain, and on my way back to the hostel I pulled out my umbrella and took the subway. After two stops I quickly got out and walked several blocks on Vallarta Street toward the hostel, only this time I am getting wet from the cars splashing puddles of water left from the rain against the sidewalk. I carried on, and for a second time I admired the beautifully designed bridal gowns displayed on the window inside the bridal boutiques.
BETH PALMER (journalism student) writes:
Before flying to Guadalajara for our three-week class, Maestra Puente told the five of us students what to expect from Mexican immigration. After border control stamps passports and baggage is claimed, a button must be pressed, she said. If it turns green, continue out the doors and into the airport’s meet-and-greet area. But if it turns red – which it never had in Puente’s dozens of prior visits – security will search all of your baggage.
Her warning lingered in our conversation – “When do we press the button?” I asked the other girls as we filed through Guadalajara border control.
“I hope I don’t get red,” Christy said.
After hours waiting at O’Hare International Airport earlier that day and then a nearly four-hour flight, none of us looked forward to a guard tearing apart our meticulously packed, incredibly stuffed bags.
We just wanted to get to our taxi.
I was the first of us five to approach the yellow traffic light that stood alone, adorned with two buttons and two sets of lights. I slung two bags over my right shoulder and balanced my duffel on my wheeled bag and reached out and pressed the button.
RED! The buzzer sounded off like a backing up truck and everyone in the baggage claim stared.
“Step to the side,” commanded the guard. “Place your bags on this table.” He pointed to a gray plastic counter. I laughed at my “luck” as I answered the his first question: “Is this your first time in Guadalajara?”
“Yes,” I said, still smiling as he unzipped my laptop bag. Then it struck me this was an airport – security was no joke, despite this game-show random roulette system of green and red lights. I tucked away my grin but at the same moment a twinkle appeared in the guard’s eye:
“Do you like tequila?”
“No!” I said, “I don’t drink!”
He had opened one zipper of a 10-plus pocketed computer bag and laid neither a hand nor an eye on my remaining four pieces of luggage.
“Have a nice trip,” he said.
Photo: Our group in Centro
CHRISTY FLEMING (journalism student) writes:
I have only been to Mexico once. I was only there for maybe six hours while I stopped there while on a cruise over winter break of last year. The day was alright, not horrible, but not particularly good either. I didn't really step back and learn to appreciate it.
The story of my Mexican journey begins at home. When I was little, my dad used to own a bar called The Sports Page. He said that he would get customers coming in all the time telling him about The Sports Page in Cozumel, Mexico. One guy even said to my dad that if he gave him a shirt to give to the bar in Mexico, he'll bring one back for him.
A few months later someone was walking into the bar with one of the bar's shirts on. Wait a second...There were never white shirts with red lettering on it before. As my dad crept up closer he noticed that in tiny letters underneath the logo, it said Cozumel. They even stole the logo, and my dad just laughed.
The Sports Page has always held a special place in my family's heart, so when we heard that we were going to Cozumel my sister, my dad, and I promised that we would go there together.
So fast forward. We are in Cozumel. I just stepped off the the little motor boat and I was so excited. Our plan was to go to the beach first, then head into town for some shopping and a drink at The Sports Page. We were just about to go when my crazy aunt, Jill, announces that a family was coming with us. This family had been in contact with us since the start of the cruise and the rest of us weren't too happy to find that my aunt had invited them.
So while we were at the beach, we had a pretty good time. It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining, the water was crystal clear and just the right temperature. I wasn't going to let one family ruin something that I have been looking forward to for about a year.
The beach was fun. My family rented a couple wave runners, I played in the sand with my younger siblings, and the best was yet to come. We were still waiting for that trip to The Sports Page.
"But we wanna stay at the beach all day!"
I cringed as I turned my head to see the mother of the family as she finished those words. How could someone that is joining us say what their plans were? Why did these people split a cab with us that was on its way back to pick us up? I was half tempted to just leave them at the beach to find their own transportation back to where our cruise was.
We simply told her that the taxi would be there soon to pick us up and that they were coming with or they were stuck. This moment was not going to be spoiled by outsiders.
So we are picked up and we finally go in to town. We would say to the vendors sitting outside of their store, "Sports Page?" and they would point us to the right direction. Wait a second. All we see is a bar called Sports Bar.
"Yeah, they changed the name about 5 years ago." The woman we found that could explain to us in English had no idea why all of our faces showed nothing but disappointment. We had about two hours left to go shopping or explore downtown.
My six-hour stay in Mexico wasn't all bad. I remember that all the people were very friendly. I think most of them were just trying to sell us something, but to me it was kind of cute. The last time I was in a marketplace like that, I was in the Bahamas and I was about 12 years old. I don't remember the people being so nice.
I look forward to going back to Mexico so I can see and appreciate how beautiful it really is and learn how to write about it. I won't let things that are small get to me like I did the first time.
TERESA PUENTE (faculty, Journalism) writes:
My journey back to Mexico began the summer when I was 10 years old and my parents piled the five of us kids into our gas-guzzling maroon Oldsmobile and drove nearly 2,000 miles from Chicago to southern Mexico. On the road we played cards and the license-plate game in the back seat of the car as we drove past the corn fields of Illinois, billboards for Graceland, and then on to the cow pastures of Texas. After more than 24 hours on the road, we arrived at the U.S.-Mexico border. A Mexican flag as big as a house flew above us, signaling we were entering another land, the land of our ancestors, my father told us. We stopped for the requisite tourist cards and traveled on past the border patrol.
My parents went to Mexico on their honeymoon, but it was the first time they took the five of us kids to Mexico. Papa said it was about time we learned Spanish. But driving in Mexico turned into an adventure we never expected, and this would be the first trip of many for me back to the homeland. It was raining and the roads were slippery. We kept driving higher and higher up roads that were curvy like a Slinky. I was in the back seat sandwiched between my older two brothers, Victor and Danny. My big sister Sylvia leaned her head against the passenger window with her face buried in a book.
My younger sister, Cecilia, who always sat up front because she was the baby, discovered a new game: counting crosses. Some were simple, white, and wooden and others were made of marble or ironwork. Some stood alone. Others were clustered together in groups of six or eight. Almost all had fresh bouquets of flowers.
“One, two, three. There’s another one Papa,” Carmen smiled with glee. “That one has flowers. It’s pretty.”
“Stop counting the crosses!” Papa yelled at Cecilia.
Papa nervously scratched his bald spot and his eyes darted in and out of the rear-view mirror.
“What’s wrong with Papa?” I asked Sylvia.
“You dummy! Those are grave markers,” she snapped.
Papa kept his eyes on the road, and Mama scooped up Cecilia, put her on her lap, and combed her hair with her fingers. “Be quiet m’ija. Your father is trying to concentrate on driving.”
We were stuck behind a big truck and Papa was anxious to go around it. There was only one lane in each direction and Mama turned her eyes away from the road.
We drove from the arid deserts, where Papa almost plastered a lizard, and way, way up into the mountains. We were so high that we drove into the clouds. We’d never seen anything like this before because the land around Chicago is flatter than a checkerboard.
My father was growing impatient because we were stuck behind the slow-moving truck, but Cecilia kept counting the crosses. “Four!” she screamed.
Cecilia was too young to understand their meaning and my father didn’t have the patience to explain to her that they were the grave markers of souls lost on the highway.
“Quiet!” he boomed in his customary authoritarian voice.
“Ben. We’re not in a hurry. Just wait until it’s safe to pass,” Mama said, squeezing Cecilia close to her.
“Mama I’m hungry,” I cried. “And I have to pee.”
“Just have another bologna sandwich, m’ija.”
“Mama I’m tired of bologna. I have a headache. I want McDonald’s.”
“Keep those kids quiet,” Papa commanded Mama.
“Shhhhh. Your father is trying to concentrate,” she said handing me a soggy sandwich.
I looked out the window for a McDonald’s, Burger King, even Jack in the Box. But all I saw were burros tied to trees and houses made of tin and plywood.
“Papa,” I cried again. “Victor farted.”
My brothers fell over giggling and squished me between them. I pushed back with my elbows. Sylvia rolled her eyes at us.
“Tell them to stop it,” I cried.
Mama plopped Cecilia in the front middle seat and leaned over the back seat to scold my brothers. Just then Cecilia sprang up when she spotted another cross. “Five!” she screamed.
At that moment Papa swerved into the left lane to pass the truck. He stepped on the gas and as he accelerated around the curve we saw a big bus coming at us. We all screamed together, “AAGGGHHH!” The last thing I remember was a big white cross with a bunch of roses tied to it. I waited for the crash, for the screech of metal on metal, for suitcases to tumble off the top of the bus and plaster our Oldsmobile, for my bologna sandwich to fly out the window. I feared it was the end of the road for the Puente family, and our relatives would erect seven crosses for us along the side of the road.
By the time I caught my breath we were safely back in the right lane and we had avoided a head-on collision with the bus. Call it a miracle. Maybe we were just lucky.
This was the beginning of my journey back to Mexico. I'm 39 years old now and Mexico is like a second home to me. I lived four years in Guadalajara until the fall of 2006, when I returned to take a job teaching journalism at Columbia College Chicago. Now I'm on my way back to Mexico this summer with a group of my students, who will take a class with me in travel writing. On this trip I'm not planning on any long-distance road trips - only to the beach.
