Another identity

I've acquired a new identity over the last year: expat.

I'm always more aware of being an American when traveling outside the USA. This seems completely logical--to be more conscious of one's nationality when surrounded by the 'other,' whatever that is. When in England, which I often am because Barry is British, I'm more sensitized to being American than I ever am in California. Also, outside the USA (and often in England), people ask questions like, "What is the American point of view about...?" and "What do Americans think about...?" I never know how to answer questions like this; how on earth can I begin to represent over 300,000,000 people?

Here in Mexico, my identity stands up and greets me all the time. The group I'm part of is called variously "estadounidense," "extranjero" (foreigner), or "gringo." Recently a Mexican used the word 'gringo' with me, and immediately looked apologetic, because it can be a putdown. I have asked a number of locals just what exactly "gringo" refers to. It's used differently by different people, but it generally does NOT refer to white foreigners from European countries, or to other English-speaking nationalities like Australians or even Canadians. It means, simply, Americans. I've also asked folks whether it is used in other Latin American countries besides Mexico, and that I still don't know.

The expat community worldwide is a large and lively one, and now that I am part of it, I enjoy reading stories about moving to Brazil, or New Zealand, or Turkey. You can stay occupied for days reading firsthand accounts about living in different countries by checking out the following British and U.S. expat websites.

http://www.escapeartist.com/

http://www.guardianabroad.co.uk/

http://www.expatentrepreneurs.com

http://www.transitionsabroad.com/listings/living/index.shtml

http://www.talesmag.com/

http://www.boomersabroad.com

http://www.expatexchange.com/

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/global/main.jhtml?view=DETAILS&grid=&xml=/global/2006/08/15/expatmain.xml

First Artwork

Six months ago I attended a party for a group of visiting artists who had just completed a week-long workshop on printmaking. I was walking around the gallery admiring the prints, when I came upon one whose splashes of green and gold specks of light I particularly liked. It had an open door, too, that invited me in.

I'm a sucker for windows and doors and frames in art. I speculate it's the sense of movement and transition that those objects represent to me.

Another person at the party pointed out the artist to me. She was an elegant 80-year-old woman who now lived in Santa Cruz, California but had grown up in Guatemala. When I told her I loved her print, she offered to give it to me! I was bowled over.

So I took it home and laid it flat on a shelf of an old built-in kitchen cabinet on the first floor, surrounded by, but hopefully protected from, dust, concrete, rubble, construction, and human interference.

Finally, this past Saturday, I decided it was time to get it framed. Enrique, my neighborhood wine store friend and bicyclist, told me of a framing shop down the street; the guy there advised me of a shop where I could buy readymade frames, and off I went to the papeleria. They had stacks of frames in piles, all tied up with string. I wanted to test the print against different sized frames so I requested that the frames be removed from their piles--an unusual request, I had the feeling. None of the frames had glass, so that would be another task. I deliberated through several sizes of frames, finally made my selection, and put the frame and print into the plastic shopping back, forgetting to place the print in its sheer paper folder.

On the way home, a few stains from the frame must have leaked onto the matting background. Tried to erase them. No luck. I could have searched for another mat, but that felt like too much of a bother, so I decided the stains weren't that noticeable, and if they were, well, I'd call them a 'feature.' (The simplest solution to a difficulty, I find, is to relabel the problem an asset. As my precocious nephew used to say at age 4 about a mole on his face, "It's a mark of distinction.")

It was now about 4:00 on Saturday afternoon, still working-hours. Barry knew of a glass store on the other side of the Embajadoras Market, so I took the frame there. The door to the shop was half-shut, with a guy repairing the deadbolt. He said he'd cut the glass if I waited while he finished fixing the lock. I sat on a stool in the musty semi-darkness surrounded by glass and frames while he worked on the door. Then he measured the glass and, using plyers (didn't he have a glass cutter?), jaggedly cut the glass.

Brought it home, Barry, who has great pride of workmanship, made a face at the cutting job, and we taped it up. Still didn't have anything to hang it with (dental floss?), but the next day on a hike in the hills above town, found some wire that I carried home in my pocket. It's not that you can't buy wire to hang pictures with in Mexico. I'm sure you can. But things are not as readily available here, and the right place to go to get the thing you want is not always obvious, at least to me. It might be partly my lack of understanding as a foreigner.

Now, the print hangs next to the refrigerator, in the pefecct location. Our first piece of artwork in our Mexican home.

The Art of Saying No to a Business Opportunity

Recently I was invited by a nonprofit Mexican environmental organization to submit a proposal to consult with them to create a five-year strategic plan. Although the offer was tempting, it was a huge and demanding project, and the proposal alone would have been an enormous challenge to pull off. The project, even in the States and in English, would still have been a major undertaking for me. After soul-searching, I decided that smaller contracts, like the teaching assignments I had in November when I substituted for a local university professor, are a better fit for me right now, given my good, but not fluent Spanish, and my still-embryonic understanding of Mexican culture.

So, I needed to thank the client for the opportunity. In the States, this would be an easy task: thanks, but no thanks. But this being Mexico, I never assume it's that simple! I drafted an email and ran it by my teacher V, who said it was polite enough, but it needed a little more...in particular, I needed to give a couple of reasons for my decision.

Reasons? In the professional trainings I give in the U.S., I advise people in different communication situations to keep their reasons to a minimum, to avoid going into long detailed explanations about why this happened or why they want that. The longer the story, I say, the more defensive you sound. As I told V, if I were turning down a possible business opportunity in the U.S., I wouldn't be expected to explain why.

Not in Mexico! She recommended that I say that my technical Spanish skills were still developing in that area, and that "circunstancias personales" prevented me from taking on a project of this scale.

"But that sounds like I'm going through a divorce or something," I objected.

"No, no, not at all," she reassured me. "The client will understand."

I do what my teachers tell me to do. So I sent the email with V's added suggestions and knew I had done it right when I received a gracious and equally polite reply from the client, saying, "Thank you for your explanation. Definitely we will invite you to participate in future projects."

Eating Out, or Trying to

Walking back from a suburban movie house recently (we had gone to see 'Babel'), Barry and I decided impulsively to eat dinner out. It was about 6:30 p.m. First we tried the one Indian restaurant in town. Sorry, the guy who was washing dishes and cleaning up told us--they had just closed. Next we tried the French restaurant, and were told it was open for snacks only. We tried one more restaurant before giving up. I had a nice orzo salad aleady made at home--yum--and nothing beats our view on the terrace in the twilight, so we had our own private dinner at home, watching the lights slowly go on in town. But it was a reminder that if you want to eat dinner in Mexico, unless you go to a tourist restaurant, you have to eat on Mexican time, meaning between about 2:00 and 6:00. La comida, the main meal of the day in Mexico, is eaten around 3:30. I find it comforting that Mexicans haven't adjusted their rhythms to us.

Exercise in Mexico

I'm a compulsive record-keeper, and one of my favorite areas to record, wherever I am, is my fitness activity, which I track daily in the back of my journal. A unique aspect about life in Guanajuato is that most people stay in pretty good shape, by default, just because you end up walking everywhere.

So here is my record of the last week's exercise:

Fri Feb 16-- "intentional walk to Cerro de Gallos" (intentional meaning not just getting around, but a purposeful walk for its own sake, in this case, to the Hill of Chickens) -- 60 mins.

Sat Feb 17-- Pilates (I brought my own fitness ball down here and do Pilates at home) -- 20 mins.
Walk in country from the Amigos party outside Marfil (a suburb) to Marfil center -- 60 mins.

Sun Feb 18-- Hike to Mellado (a mining village in the hills above Guanajuato): hike portion (meaning on trails) -- 135 minutes; walk portion (on pavement through town to reach trails) -- 70 minutes

Mon Feb 19-- intentional walk to Pastita -- 50 mins.
Pilates 15 mins.

Wed Feb 21-- early morning pre-light intentional walk with Barry -- 60 mins.
Weight-lifting (I joined a gym) -- 30 mins

Thurs Feb 22-- swim -- 45 mins (I registered to swim at the local high school; another story)
walk to and from movie in evening -- 60 mins

For a grand total of 540 minutes cardio and 65 minutes other (meaning strength, flexibility, etc.).

How is my exercise different in Mexico than in California? I ride my bike in Eureka, whereas I hope to here but haven't brought my bike down yet. I walk in Eureka, too, but nowhere near as much as here. In Eureka I roller-blade, though not as often as I used to and would like to, because the street surfaces are rougher than I'm comfortable with (I'd never roller-blade here!) In season, I back-pack in California, which I have yet to do here. And I do yoga in California, which I don't here, though it is available.

Springtime in Guanajuato

It's February and we are back in beautiful, charmed Guanajuato after six weeks in California, working to help pay the expenses of our new home. It's lovely here. Evenings are cool but days are cheerful and bright. The jacaranda trees have yet to bloom, but it feels like spring. In our absence, much of the reconstruction of city streets in el centro has been completed. The new governments--city, state, and federal--are in place. It's early morning now, and I'm listening to birdsong.