Ola from Guadalajara, Mexico!
“How in efficient!” my husband huffed as he scribbled onto the Mexican customs form. We already completed the immigration form online and was surprised by this one. It’s been over two years since our last international travel, so it slipped our minds that this was your standard issue entry requirement.
I rolled my eyes, “Wow, so American now, huh?”
You get used to how things are done in the US, where convenience and ease is the North Star. Forget that you inconvenience and short change other people, that you may strip people of livelihood. So as long as things are easier, faster, more efficient to me, then everything is fine and dandy.
There always was someone to do something. Someone handed out immigration and customs forms to each person that walked the jet bridge. Someone pointed passengers towards the immigration line for foreigners and Mexican nationals. Someone drove the car rental van you’d take from the arrivals area to the car rental garage, which was a very walkable three hundred meters. That is if you had luggage on wheels in less than a hundred degree heat.
My husband bent over to pick up his luggage to load into the van, but the driver stopped him, speaking in rapid fire Spanish with his hand up.
“Oh, someone loads your luggage for you. Just like they do back home.”
As soon as he loaded all our bags, he shuffled towards the van door, opened it, entered the van and came out with a two-step ladder, which he laid atop the ground. “Oh, how very Doña!” I gasped, hand on heart, getting into the van and shaking my head. “I’m so not used to this anymore.”
America takes pride in do-it-yourself, pulling yourself up by the boot straps. So we reprogrammed ourselves to lean into the this. Not that there weren’t people to do things for you. They just cost so much more. Another’s labor done within the country is a luxury, not everyone could afford. (Honestly, I get by with any repair work at home thanks to YouTube University. It’s not always perfect, but, hey, it got the job done without the sinking feeling on our budgets.)
The highway from the airport into Guadalajara Centro felt like secondary roads. The roads seemed like one-way alleys. Rickety, rusty cars ran alongside smaller versions brand name vehicles from Japan, China, the US and Europe. The cars had their windows down. Some public buses did not have any air conditioning. Lane lines faded into the asphalt as did the order that they were drawn for. And late at night, motorcycles and cars ran through red lights as if they were merely suggestions.
There were so many people walking! People headed out to work or school. People peddling snacks inside plastic bags, car windshield wipers, shoe shine services, knife sharpening and more. People, called franeleros after the franelas or rags that they waved (which we BTW also called it the same thing), guarded cars, assisted parking for a nominal fee.
This morning, I wanted to visit this community market or mercado I saw on a YouTube video. Google Maps is a godsend in modern day travel. But this time, the map failed. It led me to a public park, which was not it. By the graciousness and ten star hospitality of the Uber driver, he navigated to the planned location using the cross streets.
After finishing the quick round inside the mercado, I zoomed in further into the map and saw “Cafe Manila.” Gasp!
I snapped photos of the cafe, tucked inside an apartment building, fitting only two four tops and a breakfast bar for three.“Yo soy de Manila!” I greeted the barista with much excitement. With a smile and furrowed brows, she replied “Eres tu Colombia? Manila es un barrio en Medillin.”
Thanks to Google Translate and dormant university learned Spanish, I cobbled a conversation with my new barista friend, Moni, Guadalajara native. She gave me two stickers to remind me of this small slice of Manila, but not the Philippines. Rather through the looking glass of fellow Spanish colony, Mexico.
It feels weird to be home, but not home.
Muchos besos,
Didi
What I’m reading:
Ligaya Mishan dissects the career path of being a “food writer”, wielding the pen on the tight rope of basic sustenance with pleasure, gluttony and, now, ego in T Magzine here.
And as I do like learning more about my obsessions, now being tarot, I took to Rachel Pollack’s classic tarot book, Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom: A Tarot Journey of Self-Awareness.