Ten-Inch Nails – No Cut-back in Aviation Security

Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to TSA and whatever its Mexican counterpart is for giving us at least the illusion of aviation security. But in the past few years those intrepid inspectors have been collecting, thanks to me and my aversion to checked baggage, their own little Dopp kit full of my essential—though apparently lethal—personal items.

The first time the Mexican gatekeepers took my corkscrew, I had no idea the thing could be used to bring down a plane, but I took their vehement word for it. The next time, I made sure I was on solid footing, finding corkscrews (without blade attachments) on the list of specifically TSA-allowed items. ¡Por Dios! Nope, still lethal in Mexico. So now, to deny yet another over-zealous so-and-so the hand-wringing delight of disarming me on my way home, I drink only at those Mexican establishments licensed to safely own and operate these weapons of oenology.

Then there are my beloved nail scissors. I also use them to trim my mustache, fishing line, dangling threads or any other loose end. I used to assume no one would mind my invaluable little multi-function Swiss Army penknife with scissors, but, having gifted five or six to TSA, I resigned myself to disheveledness. Then I read that TSA now allows “Scissors - metal with pointed tips and blades shorter than four inches.” At last, here was my grooming salvation, and sure enough, I got them through in my carry-on for Veracruz. But not so rápido, amigo. They weren’t coming home. The offshoot? Exactly! (I think my title says it.)

Oh, and then there’s that volatile bought- after- security- check drinking water. ¡Aye! Don’t get me started!

Veracruz - Sat. 11/7 '09

On this, my last night here in this surprising, wonderful place, many feelings are simmering in my heart. It will take some time for me to digest all that I've experienced these past two weeks, but just a few thoughts:

Back in August, the Mexico bug was biting me once again. In the span of about ten minutes, I decided that I'd check out Spanish Immersion schools, and that Veracruz (based on very little information) would be a good place to look. Google turned up a few thousand references, the very first of which I clicked on. Everything I read on the Language Immersion School's website sounded perfect; I got to know the owners, Eric and Linda Ladner, a bit by email, and I enrolled. It was definitely a leap of faith, but what a great decision!

Veracruz is different from any place I've been in Mexico. Being on nearly the south shore of the Gulf of Mexico, it can be sultry, even in the fall, but relief can come at any time from the mischievous blasts of cool air they call nortes. (We've been in an unusually persistent one for over a week now.)

There's a definite Afro-Caribbean edge to Mexican culture here. You can see Cuba in the faces of many Jarochos (what native Puerto Veracruzanos call themselves). And their unique music, son Jarocho, is a blend of sounds and rhythms one might not guess comes from Mexico.

Veracruz, lacking the broad white beaches of the famous resort destinations, is virtually undiscovered by Americans. In fact, in two weeks, I've seen fewer than ten people I've recognized as Americans.


I've found most Mexicans I've met to be smart, well-mannered, gracious and extremely generous. But here in Veracruz, I've felt an extra measure of these qualities. It's a happy place, one with an extraordinary lightness of spirit.

The drug wars haven't yet slithered into Veracruz. Is it a coincidence that there are barely any Americans here and that it's known as one of the safest cities in the country?

Sadly, I have to pack for tomorrow's flight back home, so I'll sign off for now. To those of you who've been following some of my posts, thank you for your interest. I'll leave you with a few more images of the people who have touched me during my time in this place called Veracruz.

Veracruz - Fri. 11/6 '09

A special hello to my Hubbs Center English language learners!

I'm so sorry I wasn't able to post something special for you to discuss at your class Wednesday evening. I've been working on my report on my Day of the Dead weekend in Naolinco, and am happy to say that it's now posted. I hope you'll have a chance to read at least parts of it. Maybe we can discuss it next Wednesday when I'm back in the Twin Cities.

I hope you're all well and continuing to learn and gain confidence in your English. Believe me, I know what it's like learning a new language! But you're all young people and you'll soon be great English speakers.

See you all soon... Jeff

Veracruz - 11/3-4 '09

I'm at the post office (with fellow student, Nancy)
to mail a birthday card to my old pal Dick.

There are still a few altars alive and kicking
in Veracruz two days after Day of the Dead.

Boulevard Manuel Avila Camacho, the broad, waterfront
street half a block from the Language Immersion School

Sheltered from the on-and-off rain, an orchestra plays
under one of the arcades surrounding the zocalo...

...and several couples ply an elegant tango alongside.

On my second visit to the Aquarium, I noticed
creatures I'd missed the first time, like these giant gar.

Lunch in the school dining hall with my compañeros

Fellow student Jack (from Utah) gets
some pointers from maestra Margot.

Dinner at the zocalo with (l. to r.) Linda, teacher/charlante
Rebeca, and Jack. I'm the two-fisted drinker on the right.

Naolinco, Veracruz - 10/31-11/2 '09

In all my trips to Mexico these past 55 years, I’ve never managed to be here during Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), the holiday remembering, honoring and celebrating los difuntos, the departed souls of people’s loved ones. In planning this trip to Veracruz, I realized that, at last, my timing would coincide with this remarkable blend of pre- Hispanic and Catholic traditions. Not to mention that this year the holiday falls on the day of the full moon! 

A LITTLE BACKGROUND ON DAY OF THE DEAD
Day of the Dead is less about mourning the dead than it is about celebrating life. It’s a big party by the living in which the spirits of their loved ones are welcomed, embraced and, in some ways, entertained. Each family— and many businesses— begin the elaborate preparations far in advance of the November 1-2 duration of the holiday. 

They include the construction of an altar, a sort of shrine to the difuntos. Altars almost always comprise ancient symbols like arches, candles, incense-burners and, of course, lots of flowers. No array is complete without the age- old zempasuchitl, a type of marigold, and a deep- fuchsia flower with a fuzzy, brain- like texture (similar to our cockscomb), which together are referred to as la flor de muertos. And petals of the zempasuchitl are often formed into a cross on the floor in front of the altar and/or strewn in a path from the altar out the door (showing the difuntos the way home). 

Other items commonly found on the ascending levels of the altar include photos of the departed loved one(s), representations of saints, copies of ancient sculpture or pottery, items representing the deceased’s accomplishments, and various kinds of foods, drinks and other things for which he or she had a special yen— often including (most often for the men) bottles of tequila and packs of cigarettes. Rounding out the display are lots of fruit and, perhaps the most important of all offerings, el pan de muertos. The loaves of sweet bread come in many sizes, usually round or broadly oval. The surface of each loaf is crafted, as if by a sculptor, into elaborate designs, and then the loaf is baked until it reaches somewhere from a golden brown to a deep mahogany color. Communities as a whole also seize on other carry-overs from the pre-conquest times, including the ubiquitous catrina (life- size figures of skeletons elaborately dressed and posed in any conceivable role, from babies, to business men; from elegant damas to couples in love, and displayed in stores, public spaces and the streets. Even pets can be represented as catrinas).

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS IN NAOLINCO, VERACRUZ  Naolinco de Victoria (Naolinco for short) is known for two things: The fact that 80 percent of the population (of, I’d guess, 2,000- 3,000 souls) make their living from the crafting, distribution and sale of shoes; and its annual Dia de los Muertos festivities.
Saturday, November first, at 9AM I headed for the huge Veracruz bus station and boarded AU’s direct service to Xalapa, a city of about half a million population and the state capital of Veracruz. 

The relaxing two- hour ride took us northwest through sugar cane fields, some cattle country, and then increasingly hilly, forested terrain broken by rock cliffs and canyons (and an impressive bamboo forest). As we neared the city, I felt the cooler air, smelled wood smoke and noticed moss on many horizontal surfaces—all indications of Xalapa’s famously damp, cool, drizzly climate. With the higher elevation, we’d definitely left the warm, wet sponge of Veracruz’s southern Gulf weather behind. 

From the main station, I took a cab for Central Bandilleros, the obscure little bus station that provides the only bus link with Naolinco. There I grabbed the next “semi- direct” bus (one of a slightly lesser class than my first leg) for the hour-long, climbing, tortuous ride to my destination. As we pulled into Naolinco, we passed its famous statue of a giant cobbler hammering on a shoe, representing the town’s stock in trade and, a few blocks later, pulled into the tiny, inconspicuous bus terminal. 

Outside, the refreshing 45- 50- degree air felt wonderful to this norteño. Judging from the fierce wind, I figured the norte we’d been feeling for several days was still kicking and wasn’t sparing Naolinco. I soon noticed with a chuckle to myself that most of the locals were wearing parkas, scarves and wool stocking caps. 

A few blocks more and I found the zocalo, with its several mammoth Norfolk Island pines, and the presentable little Hotel del Parque. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around and just getting the lay of the land— not very hard when you can only walk about ten blocks in any direction until you’re out in the country. 

Already, the townsfolk and business proprietors were preparing for Dia de los Muertos, setting up their catrina figures, strings of cheery, pastel- colored papel picado (perforated paper) and altars honoring departed family members and business founders. Here and there, burros and their handlers were delivering ten- gallon jugs of water to homes along the hilly streets.

I spent a restless night in my ground- floor, eight- by ten- foot room separated from the busy lobby by just— get this— a large, double, swinging- door type of window with frosted glass panes secured by a dime-store latch. And no curtain of any kind to block the bright lights just outside from pouring into my room. Not to mention the noise. My door might as well have been propped wide open! 

Sunday morning, after a satisfying breakfast of huevos a la Mexicana, frijoles and tortillas at the next- door restaurant, I started a long day of trying to immerse myself in this charming, friendly little town. Within two blocks along Avenida de la Revolución I spotted a large doorway and a sign reading “Casa de la Cultura”. Inside I could see a catrina on display, so I went in. 

Turns out this was the town’s pride and joy, a fabulous exhibition of the finest catrinas, altars and other Day of the Dead decorations. Nearly all the businesses (that would be a couple of hotels, about three full- service restaurants and over 200 shoe shops) were getting ready for the expected rush of Mexican and international tourists who descend on Naolinco every November first and second. 

I looked up a cobbler named Gilberto Fernandez Mora about whom I’d read a glowing report on line from a customer who’d ordered five pairs of made- to- measure shoes from him when visiting the town (at a price of about $25 US a pair). Señor Fernandez Mora grinned from ear to ear when I suggested that, by this one mention in cyberspace, his fame was spreading worldwide. 

The next day, on the other side of town, a young man and woman approached me excitedly on the street. They explained that she’s Fernandez Mora’s daughter and he works for him. She told me her father had forgotten to ask me how they could find the website mentioning him and his shop. 

The town was really coming to life. As the day went on, the streets began filling with people— clearly a mix of locals and visitors. Vendors of flowers, candles, pan de muertos, sweets and gifts surrounded the park with their stalls. And along the side streets it seemed nearly every other doorway hosted a tiny table arrayed with recycled wine and tequila bottles, now filled with delicious home- made wines— wild grape and six or seven other fruits I’ve never heard of. Each vendor offered liberal tastes, served in little plastic pill cups. 

I stopped to take a photo of a big rack of pan de muertos in a store window. Before I’d gotten the lens cap off, the door opened and a young man motioned me in. 

Inside, he and four or five others were working and shaping the dough for yet more loaves. Turns out I was in the manufacturing part of the panadería, with the actual shop next door. As I was asking the guys a few questions, one handed me a fresh, fragrant tamale, still steaming inside its little corn- leaf packet. Another handed me some Coke in a big styrofoam cup. 

This moment captured very well, I think, one facet of my impression of this special place: the generosity of both spirit and substance of the residents. (Of course I had to go next door and buy a couple of small loaves.) 

Avenida de la Revolución led me uphill, past some pretty fancy, free- standing homes with lawns and driveways, to a decent overlook of the town. There in the mist, practically in the clouds, I stopped to remember my wife’s mother, who’d passed away at 91 just last week. At that very moment, a flock of 50 or so big, snow- white birds flew across the horizon accentuated against the dark hilltops.

Eventually I worked my way over to the south end of town and el Panteon. I could see right away that this cemetery is different from others I’ve seen elsewhere in Mexico. The graves are marked, not by the usual gaudy profusion of religious statues and plastic flowers, but by substantial little houses, their elaborate appointments of flowers, photos and memorabilia of the departed well protected inside. Most even have electric lights.

As night poured in from the surrounding hills, the town’s busy- ness turned to magic. Their busy preparations over, the residents turned to the more respectful— but by no means somber nor sad— business of welcoming home their departed spirits. Some homes opened their doors to welcome in neighbors and visitors alike to marvel at their altars and perhaps pay respects with a small gift of flowers, a candle or some pan de muerto. A few even handed out tamales, another of the special foods marking particularly this holiday. 

 

In a tradition called La Cantada, groups of mostly young men wandered from home to home and, when invited, surrounded the altar to sing a simple, haunting Rosary. There were many stanzas and I could understand very little except for something about “los cinco misterios,” the five mysteries. Small groups of young people, elaborately decked out as living catrinas, roamed the streets, posing in mute deadpan for photos with jolly visitors. 

As I passed the Casa de Cultura again, a troop of cub scouts, their faces half painted in black and white, waited in line to see the exhibition. On my way back to the cemetery, I bought a dozen big yellow flowers and tried to think of a way to symbolically honor the memory of Sally’s mother. 

When I got there, Naolinqueños and visitors alike were streaming in along the single, narrow main pathway. Some carried candles or flowers. As I worked my way toward the quieter back of the cemetery, with its plainer, less- cared- for graves, it dawned on me what to do with my flowers. 

I picked out the most forlorn, forgotten markers and placed a single bright stem on each one. I think Sally’s mom would have liked that. I felt an incredibly warm and peaceful vibe in that cemetery. The silence was brushed only by soft choruses of the same rosary I’d heard before in the Cantada, this time sung by family groups, some of them accompanied by a guitar. 

The smell of flowers and incense warmed the brisk air. The full moon was directly overhead and, just above the horizon, Orion's Belt stood on end, exactly in the center of a near- perfect rectangle formed by the four brightest stars in the area. I’ve never seen anything like it, and wondered what it should mean for me. 

I stayed, just strolling around, until midnight. I prayed for Sally’s mom, my parents and sweet little Abby, our mini Schnauzer who died just a few weeks ago. I could feel their spirits and had lucid images of their faces, of my father's hands and of Abby running toward me in the park where we used to take her on our walks. 

Monday morning, I returned to Veracruz and school, full of impressions and thoroughly enchanted by Naolinco, its traditions and its people. I know I won’t soon forget them.

Veracruz - Mon. 11/2 '09

For those of you following my adventures here in Veracruz, I'm sorry to have been out of touch for the past few days. I took off on my own to a lovely little town about four hours north of here known for two things: its more than 2oo shoe shops—most of them owned by the cobblers who make the shoes—and its treasured traditions for celebrating Day of the Dead.
It was an unforgettable experience on which I promise to report as soon as I've had time to transcribe some notes and choose a few telling photos. Please stay tuned...

Veraqcruz - Fri., Oct. 30, '09

After five days of increasingly hot, humid weather, the close atmosphere has finally started to consume me. After class this morning, we took the bus to the centro to visit another of the "city museums", this one with some very interesting and well-done historical exhibits. But with no A/C and only a few fans placed here and there, the heat sapped my concentration. I had little interest in discussing the exhibits or anything in English, not to mention Spanish. Sweat poured down my body; every step I made was checked by the sticking of my pants to my thighs. Just as I was about to rush out of the building for some breezy shade, a museum guide, recognizing Nancy and me as easy victims, grabbed us to use as models in her explanation of early 20th century social niceties to a group of elementary school kids. The poor woman and the other adults taking in her tour tried to make us feel part of the whole thing, but I must have looked as pre-occupied as I felt.



This afternoon, finally, relief! As the norte blew in, the sky clouded up, a fierce wind rattled windows and signs, wind-blown whitecaps shredded the Gulf, and by 4:00 the temperature had dropped to a refreshing 80 degrees.

Tonight, Jorge (the wonderful young charlante I'd met my first day at school) was back on duty in the student lounge. While I waited for Eric and Linda to return from their daily constitution and let me into my room (in which I'd locked my key) Jorge and I had a wonderful conversation on a wide range of topics. (While some of my sentences are still a bit halting for lack of the right word or tense, I'm really proud of the way my speaking and listening skills have been shaping up!) Then Jorge picked up the guitar Eric keeps in the lounge and quietly played several more of the gorgeous classical pieces he's mastered.

Tomorrow, I try to find my way up to Naolinco de Victoria, a couple of hours and a couple of bus legs north of here. I'd come across information about the mountain village on the web, saying that its Dia de los Muertos celebrations are unusually rich and welcoming to visitors. Luckily, I and Genny, who decided she'd like to join me, were able to secure, several weeks ago, the last two hotel rooms in town. It should be a real adventure— we might be welcomed with open arms into people's homes to see their elaborate, tradition-steeped altars honoring their difuntos (deceased loved ones). Or we might feel we're intruding, hold back and wish we'd not devoted our weekend to the effort. As the Mexicans say, sea como sea, we'll see.
Around here in Puerto Veracruz, we've already seen quite a few altars being built and decorated, pan de muerto (bread made only for this occasion), skull and skeleton costumes and trinkets, and of course the flor de muerto, the special marigolds (zempasuchitl in Náhuatl, language of the Aztecs) always used for decoration.

NOTE: I'll not be able to post for the next two days, since I've decided not to take my computer on what might be a pretty rough ride. But I promise to share whatever impressions and photos I come up with in my weekend in Naolinco.

By the way, Happy Halloween to all you norteamericanos!

Veracruz - Thur., 10/28 '09

For some reason, I wasn't among the rest of the students and staff who were awakened at 4:30 AM by an earthquake. Some said they were nearly shaken out of their beds. News reports placed the epicenter of the 5.5- magnitude temblor 45 miles south of here in Las Tuxtlas. Luckily, we've heard of no major damage or injuries.

Thursdays are all-day field trips. Of the four destinations offered, I was the only student to opt for Zempoala and La Antigua trip. So I had Rebeca, who's becoming one of my favorite teachers/guides, all to myself. During the 45-minute bus ride, and throughout the day, we chatted almost constantly— about things we were seeing, about the finer points of the language, and about our respective lives in countries at once very similar and worlds apart.

During our transfer from highway bus to local "chicken" bus, we sat down on the bus stop bench next to a pair of 10- or 12- year- old boys. They noticed this "older", very tall, very white guy and this attractive young Mexicana together and practically jumped in our laps in their curiosity and eagerness to hear my attempts at their language. When they realized I was for real, the shorter, more jovial Luís asked me if I could translate into Spanish for him the huge pop culture anthem that was hot five or more years ago in a U.S. beer commercial: "Wha's ah-h-h-p? Only after about 20 minutes chatting with them, did we learn that Carlos (he insisted we call him Charlie) was selling pan de muertos, the special sweet bread traditionally made only for Day of the Dead. He seemed delighted when I bought one, and proudly pulled it out of the bag on his lap and placed it into a smaller bolsita.

While the rest of this week has been quite hot and humid, today the heat was oppressive. There was little escape, as we were outside with little shelter from the sun for much of the day.

Zempoala is the site of a small, but well-restored, Totonaca ruins. It was here that, in the early 16th century, Hernán Cortés brought his trusty, tri-lingual (and beloved) Indian translator La Malinche to help form the conquerer's first key alliance with the cacique, or local warlord.

We strolled around the grounds among the several small pyramids, the gladiators' ring and the sacrifical altar, taking frequent breaks under the few scattered trees. Aside from a couple of school groups and a pair of women who looked like Americans, we were the only visitors. On our way, several people who work at the site and live in the pueblo of Zempoala, stopped what they were doing and, as if they had nothing better to do, took 10 or 20 minutes to explain layers of the history we hadn't read on the signs. (I'm finding this generosity of spirit to be the rule among many Mexicans I've met, but it seems especially prevalent here in Veracruz.)


On our way back south to La Antigua, we stopped at a restaurant perched on bank of the Rio Huatzilapan and enjoyed sharing tastes of each other's delicious fish dishes. Mine was my first taste (at least in Veracruz) of Pescado a la Veracruzana, one of the signature dishes of this state. Rebeca had moharra, another very tasty local fish.

La Antigua is where Cortés first landed in Mexico and built his home and offices. What remains of the walls is crumbling here and there and blotched with moss and black mold. Huge Banyan-type trees have nearly consumed the structure, their roots flowing like hot wax over the brick and coral head surfaces. There was very little guidance— personal or through signage— at this site, so we just strolled around, took a few pictures and enjoyed the lovely shade.

On the bus ride back to school, Rebecca and I got to know each other better and worked more on my pronunciation (and a bit on hers, in the few words of English she's picking up from students). The word she's having the most trouble with: return. Turns out it has several sounds and combinations of sounds that are quite foreign to an hispanohablante.

Tonight, Laurie (from Kansas) and I grabbed the bus for downtown and enjoyed a nice dinner in the zocalo, getting back to school before ten.

Veracruz - Wed., 10/28 '09

It's late. I've just gotten back from a very pleasant night with a few of my compadres, so I'll try to make today's post a quick one. (We'll see...)

As my classes— and especially my informal conversations with my teachers, charlantes and fellow students— continue, I'm getting flashes of the realization that I'm well on my way to my goal of becoming fluent (whatever that means) in Spanish.

For this morning's outing after class teacher/charlante Margot (I have to remember that here it's pronounced Mar-goat') took a couple of us once again to the central historic district. We climbed up into the Baluarte Santiago, which we've driven by nearly every day. There are historical exhibits inside, but we decided it wasn't worth the admission price and opted to just walk around the perimiter and see the dozen or so cannon poking through the parapet. As we passed a non-descript doorway we noticed a couple of young men inside working on a Day of the Dead altar. Margot struck up a conversation and the next thing we knew, we were inside the little room getting a very generous description from one of the young men of some of the traditions of this intriguing holiday.

Our next stop was the IBEC, a college-level school of the arts. The place was alive with students dancing here, singing there, strumming guitars in the hallways and, in the distance someone was playing the piano, the music seeming to create its own space . We were invited into one room full of music students learning the basics of rhythm, clapping and stomping their feet to the direction of their maestra. There was a small art gallery with some very nice work. We also ran into a man whom Margot introduced as the teacher of the classes in Afro-Carribean dance she takes there three evenings a week.

We ventured out into the school's inviting central courtyard, filled with lush vegitation, a fountain and echos of all the sounds I've described. In one corner was a table with three indigenous women preparing the traditional ceremonial tamales for the school's Day of the Dead altar. They explained what they were doing and its significance. The tamales were huge, with the corn masa (dough) spread over several broad leaves (not the usual platano leaf, but one from a plant they could only describe in their main language, Náhuatl). When it came time to add the chicken— usually sprinkled rather sparcely in a tamale— , they reached in, with bare hands, to a large metal pot and placed whole- chicken- sized piles of the pieces onto each bed of masa, along with the thick dark red sauce in which it had been cooked. I was especially enamored of the lovely face of one of the middle-aged women, whose generous smile and gentle manners made us feel like family.

Afternoon class and after-class time were pretty uneventful, but tonight six of us, including staffer Rebeca, took the bus south for a few miles to Giro's, a restaurant well known for its tacos. They did not disappoint. Of the ten or twelve varieties, I tried the local specialty, tacos al pastor (shepherd's tacos), another style and a little tequila to wash them down. The food was wonderful, the company was great and the staff was very attentive and nice. (It was interesting and timely that the cooks and some of the waiters were wearing surgical masks and each waiter offered his customers a squirt of hand sanitizer before they received their food.)

After dinner, we headed for a hall where there was to be a performance of works by famous Veracruzano composer and pianist Augustín Lara. When we got there, the door was locked and the only people to be seen were a local TV cameraman with big camera and another man. As we tried the door and waited for a while, we struck up a conversation with both men and discovered the latter is a poet. He and I discussed a bit of philosophy (his view of the world and life is a cosmic one in which everything is related and everything exists within everything else—much like my Querétaro painter friend Fernando Garrido's outlook). Finally, the cameraman knocked on the door and the person who answered told us the performance had been postponed until tomorrow night.
Before we left, I asked the poet if he had any of his work on paper that he could share with us. He said no, but, with a little pressure, he recited a poem in which the wisdom of the ages comes down to the poet from the cosmos, enters his head, flows down his arm like golden honey and spills onto the paper as his poetry. It was one of those moments that seldom happen when everything goes the way you'd planned.

A few of us were able to ease the disappointment of missing the concert by buying a sixpack of Modelo and drinking it on the school's outdoor patio, where we had a great conversation (much of it in Spanish, but not all) and learned a bit more about each other. For example, I found out the Mike is a retired therapist and that Laurie once was an Alaskan bush pilot!

I have not done as I said I would; this is too long. But if you've born with me this far, thanks for your interest and patience!

Veracruz - Tues., 10/27 '09

Aside from the usual schedule of morning class, field trip and afternoon class, and the steady gains I'm making in my Spanish, there's not much to report.
Today's outing was to what's called the city museum. The building itself and a large statue at the head of the exhibit hall are dedicated to and named for Benito Juarez, the Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president from 1858 til 1872. The contents of the building were a great disappointment for what's supposedly a showcase of all that's great and historical about this city. There were only a few more statues of statesmen, a small exhibit of photos documenting the fall of the Berlin Wall, and a sampling of paintings by Veracruzano painter, Carlos Lozano.

This morning two of our maestras showed up for work not feeling well. One said she had alergies; the other—with a sore throat—thinks she just got a chill from her other job, as a greeter at Costco, standing directly under the constant cold draft of the air door. The latter, Anna, is my teacher in the mornings, so I'm trying to tactfully (making it look facetious) keep my distance and avoid touching things she tries to hand me. (Turns out everyone was fine.)

Again today I found chances to converse with the charlantes and, after PM class, with a fisherman I met along the seawall just down the block. We chatted— along with a few other passers- by for a few minutes about fishing before it came out that he'd lived all over the U.S. for almost 20 years while working for Ringling Bros. & Barnam & Bailey Circus. When the other guys left, my new friend asked me, despite his not looking the least bit disheveled, if I had any extra clothes I could give him. I explained that I'd had to pack very light, but that I'd see if I could find something for him. Maybe I'll buy something for him— small price to pay for making a new friend, no?

Tonight, beginning to dread eating dinner alone again, I asked fellow student Mike (Miguel) if he had plans for dinner. He told me he did, but, with no hint of an invitation, I figured he'd rather be alone. So I headed down our street a couple of blocks to Restaurant Suriana, which comes highly recommended by our hosts. On the way, I ran into Christine, a student I hadn't yet met because she'd been in the capital city, Xalapa, a few hours northwest of here, doing research on ancient women. She was nice enough to turn around and chat with me (in English) as I ate (at the same place she'd just left). Anyway, the conversation was good and the pechuga empanizada (pounded, breaded chicken breast) was excellent.

TO MY WONDERFUL ELL CLASS AT THE HUBBS CENTER AND TEACHER, CHRISTINE:
A special hello to you, Cris and all our students. I hope you are all feeling well and continuing to work hard in class. I wanted to post this message tonight (Tuesday) because I know class begins at 5:00 PM tomorrow, and I probably won't be able to post tomorrow's report before then.
Anyway, I hope you're enjoying my reports and that they're giving you a chance to practice your growing skills in reading and speaking (that is, if you ask Cris and me lots of questions!!)
Isn't it nice to know that your teacher volunteer is now also a student?
I miss you guys and am sorry I can't be in class with you tomorrow!! Take care until I see you all again. Best wishes to all -- Jeff