San Francisco: from three days to three weeks

In that little town outside the capital I eventually ended up staying three weeks, a lot more than I had planned. Besides learning how to bake cookies and pizzas I broadend my array of handwork with knotting belts and preparing tamales (A mexican delicacy of cornmeal dough filled with various things like meat wrapped up in corn husks). I also further specialized in Mexican humor, to that extent that everyone of the family was saying I had been forged a monster. Maybe, maybe. One thing is certain, I understand when anyone is trying to pull my leg with sexually charged jokes and if fast enough I can counter-attack. The difference with my preference for dry, direct humor is quite big, though. Mexicans don't seem to understand or appreciate when I launch an in-your-face comment. Most of them say it's not fun. Cultural differences, I guess... Another difference I noticed was the cultural gap between them and me. During those three weeks I observed how Alfredo, the only cultural aware of the clan, in vain attempted to convince the others of at least learning a few words in English, appreciate their own historic heritage or read the newspaper. It was poignant to see how the others stubbornly rejected his failed sermons. For instance, once, in Victor's workshop we were all working on an order when Alfredo walks in and starts talking about traveling, or at least exploring own country. That ended up in a discussion about spending your money only weekly drinking sessions or saving it for greater purposes like traveling which was ultimately ended by Tisho who told Alfredo: "You continue dreaming and let the rest live." With that strong message the defeated one walked out with yet another disappointment. I never took the opportunity to tell him, but if certain people are not interested in leaving their safe haven to explore other lands or to maintain a minimum level of culture that's their decision and most of all they won't be tempted to change their way of thought. Alfredo tried (and probably still does) to impose his ideas onto the rest, with poor results. If some of his family members are satisfied underneath the ceiling of their neighbourhood, close to everything familiar, that's their decision. Poor guy. It is said that wisdom comes with the years, but not in his case. As for me, I felt the same frustration as he about the same matter, but I tried to accept their way of life and put aside mine. Surprisingly, that wasn't too hard and it created some very nice moments. However, now and then I couldn't withhold a criticizing remark. An example: On a Sunday Alfredo and I visited the ruins of Teotihuacán, an impressive archeological site that dates back more than a thousand years. Although I had been there two times before, it never ceases to amaze me. When we returned Tisho asked me what I had done that day and when I informed him his reaction was: "What do wanna go there for? It's just a pile of stones. They won't leave. It'll always be there." Completely outraged and filled with incomprehension, I raked him over the coals, unable to hold myself in. I had endured a lot, but his rejection for his own ancient historical heritage lured out the loud, angry boy in me. I don't repent it, but I tried to keep those reactions to a minimum. Adaption is a strong virtue...

Meanwhile the days flew by and after two weeks I started thinking it was time to move on. When I mentioned that during one of our meriendas (late evening snack), I was met with concerned eyes and confusion. "Why do you wanna leave?", they asked me. "Aren't you at ease here?". I tried to explain my need to move on, but I was shut up after they said: "You'll stay here until Saturday for the Posada and leave the next day, what do you think?". Much debate was out of the order. They pretty much decided the period of my staying instead of me. In fact, that's when I realized I had started to become part of the family. I had felt it in the previous weeks, but that night I was certain I had created strong family ties. They're not family in the real sense of the word, but strong friendship relations almost fill up the definition of that word. Anyway, time passed by like nothing and quickly Saturday came around the bend.

The Posada is a traditional Mexican pre-Christmas celebration which can be celebrated up to nine days before December 24th, wherein the wanderings and requests for shelter of Joseph and Mary are commemorated. In its essence it's just another excuse to get together to drink and eat joyfully, albeit with a religious character. The guests have to divide into two groups, one of them who stands outside representing Joseph and Mary requesting shelter, the other one who stands inside the house representing the landowner. According to the tradition the owner rejects twice their requests, but ultimately concedes and lends them a place for the night. This dialogue is sung by both parties with fixed lyrics and melody. When the 'pilgrims' enter the house it is time to eat. After dinner it's customary to break the internationally known piñata. The Padilla family pretty much followed this tradition and it helped me to remind the significance of the celebration which I had forgotten over the years. When we started singing I thought about how many typical Mexican customs were unknown to me while I, as a half Mexican, should cherish them. I had stayed for too long in Belgium, I felt. This is the dilemma: I can't have a four-year hiatus after every visit to Mexico, but at the same time I want to explore other parts of the world too. Whether I come over every year or stay away for decades, after I leave this country I'll have to try to keep up my Mexican identity. No doubt about that. Anyway, I had a lot of fun that night. After we had all eaten the piñatas were brought up. While I was documenting how the kids joyfully were trying to break it, one of the guests called my name. Rapidly the whole gang were shouting that it was my turn. As much as I tried to refuse it, I was forced to take the stick and hit the piñata. Well, I wasn't really forced to, moreover I wanted to participate in the tradition. So before I knew it I was blindfolded - this in representation of my blind faith to god, *ahum* - and started swinging around, trying to hit cardboard star with seven points, which stands for the seven cardinal sins. It had been ages since the last time I had had a piñata. As a little kid I would often have one on my birthdays, but instead of being happy for it I would always cry and/or turn mad because I didn't want the beautiful cardboard creation to be beaten to death. At the posada I didn't cry or anything, but laughed like a hyena while the rest was doing likewise. For a brief moment I felt young again. After that part was over I was called yet again to the center of attention with Carmen, on of the daughters, asking me to dance. Refusing was futile, almost letting her walk away empty-handed, so I thought "Fuck, why not?". Again, everyone was laughing at me or with me. My dancemoves were horrible, maybe even embarrassing, but I guess that's my style. I like to make a fool out of myself on the dancefloor. First there was some salsa music playing and, despite I took one class in Belgium a while ago, I had forgotten the basics. Luckily Carmen was very patient with me and helped me out on my moment of glory. It's interesting to see how a lot of people here dispose of a minimum ability to dance according to the rhythm, as if they were born with it, while in Belgium they all move like tree trunks. That's why in my country I can boast so-called 'latino' moves whereas here I can't, consequently falling in embarrassment. I've been thinking a while about taking some salsa classes...

The rest of the night slowly transformed into a drinking party. The Padillas wanted to organize a little goodbye party, so Alfredo supplied those who didn't let their hand off the bottle constantly with beer and 39 pesos tequila. Our merry band of drinkers was expanded by Jonathan, an ex of one of the family's daughters, and an almost midget whose name I have forgotten. From that point on the alcohol haze turned into a loud bacchanal with me urinating against the neighbour's car while they walked out of the door and the midget man singing beautifully rancheras about getting drunk, etc. We had to carry the poor man home, he was done for the night. And then there was Jonathan who had arrived with two kids whose origin is unclear who obviously had to be brought home. The poor kids had to wait for hours while we drunk bottle after bottle, which now in retrospect makes me feel a bit ashamed. Jonathan said to them: "Just wait a little bit more. The thing is, I don't understand. I'm trying to finish it [the beer], but it won't. It just keeps coming! I don't understand!". That's one hell of an example for those kids... Anyway, I helped to carry one of them home. Afterwards I just remember crawling into my bed with my shoes on. I had already forgotten it was balls-freezing cold.

And so the last day of my stay at the Padilla family had arrived. While I was sitting at the table for breakfast I received a last lesson in the hazards of water. I had forgotten to mention that they believe so strongly in Holy Soda that they're actually convinced that water harms your inner system. I knew Mexicans and water didn't really match, but they really scared me. They tried to convince me that drinking water during or after inebration is the worst you can do and that a beer or a carbonated softdrink does you more good. Discussing was completely impossible with these people. They invented a medical term to scare me from drinking water for the hangover, looking disappointed while I was filling up my glass with delicious, fresh H2O. Fuck that, you believe in La Santa Coca. Don't come crying if you're diagnosed with diabetes because I will point my finger at you and laugh. But no, I shouldn't insult their veneration for Mr. Cola, they were much too nice for me. I said my goodbye to everyone and left for the busstation to catch the next bus to Guadalajara, where another family had been waiting for me. Honestly, I was quite sad to leave San Francisco. I really enjoyed it there. But on the other hand I was relieved to finally move on. At this tempo I won't get to Buenos Aires by August. Last thing worth mentioning is a djembe player on the bus who was singing about transitoriness of life, how everything comes to an end. "Todo tiene su final/Nada dura para siempre/Tenemos que recordar/Que no existe eternidad." (Everything has its end/Nothing lasts forever/We have to remember/Eternity does not exist). With those simple words I melancholicaly reflected on my three weeks in San Francisco and all other places I had been. If there's one sad thing about traveling, it's leaving things behind. So to share this temporary state of melancholy, here's the video of the lyrics: