Having actually been in Mexico for a week and a half now, I realize that in all of that last email, I never actually said anything about Mexico. So here’s to remedy that. 

Last week on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I caught a red-eye flight out of Portland to Mexico City by way of Minneapolis and Detroit. All told, I was about 14 hours in transit. I arrived in Mexico City’s airport, spent about an hour waiting to get through customs, and turned on my phone to see about trying to meet up with my Mexican little sister Adriana, who was supposed to meet me in the airport and take me back to her home in Pachuca, about two hours away. I found a message saying something to the effect that she had missed the bus, so her mom would come and pick me up instead. That concerned me just a bit. I was inside the international airport of a city with a population three times the size of Switzerland with scant idea of how I was supposed to find a woman that I had met once and (thanks to my horrible memory of names and faces) I had no idea how to distinguish from the thousands of other faces swirling around the crowd. So, I did what I always do in situations of panic: I pulled out my Spanish Bible and started trying to make sense of new vocabulary. I sat and waited for probably a half hour, hoping and praying that by some miracle, this kindly Samaritan would be able to pick out the lost gringo in the brightly colored t shirt. And while I waited, I started to get angry. (Of course, having not eaten in 18 hours or slept more than three hours the previous night wasn’t helping my general mood). Why would Adriana do this? Didn’t she plan for contingencies? Why are Mexicans always late? In AMERICA, we are on time to give rides to and from airports! (Most of the time). 

Now, the more perceptive among you probably picked up on the irony a lot faster than I did: first of all, I constantly live my life on Mexican time, and have absolutely no cause to get irritated with anyone for such a reason, much less someone for whom “Mexican Time” is the cultural norm. Second, she rode the bus to come and meet me at the airport. This hit home the first of several culture shocks already in my stay.  In America, the premium value is efficiency: I give you a ride to the airport because it’s more convenient, faster, and cheaper than making you catch the bus. In Mexico, it’s relationship: I will ride the bus for two hours to greet you and then sit next to you as you sleep on the bus for two hours back. To an American, such a use of time seems ridiculously wasteful, and an American host in such a situation would generally (I believe) say, here’s where you buy your bus ticket; see you at the station in Pachuca. To a Mexican, it’s just common decency. 

Upon arrival in Pachuca, I said hi to Adriana, met her 97-year-old grandmother Maria Luz (who still insisted on preparing me food and washing my dishes afterwards) as well as her aunt, who has Down’s syndrome, and then went to meet up with Adriana’s small group from church. After a short meditation and a few songs, sung out of tune, but very enthusiastically, we played “caras y gestos” (Mexican Catchphrase) until about ten at night. At this point, I was quite ready to retire. The next day was almost entirely devoted to helping out with a program called “Una Semana en Verano“(basically, Vacation Bible School) at Adriana’s church. And yes, children’s songs are just as annoyingly catchy in any language. 

The next day (Saturday) was quite the experience. I had asked Adriana the night before if she had any particular plans for the following day. She said no, we would probably just explore around Pachuca a bit. So I was quite surprised the following morning to be awakened by loud knocking on the bedroom door and a voice informing me that I had ten minutes to shower before we left. As my Spanish brain had not yet turned on, I stumbled out, showered as quickly as I could (which was relatively easy, because the hot water disappeared after a minute or two), and walked outside holding my shoes in my hands. Once we were in the car, we drove across town picked up two of Adriana’s mom’s friends, and then started driving to a neighboring village about two hours away to pick up some supplies for her mom’s store. Adriana’s mom and her two friends all own small stores where they sell “manualidades“– basically, the kind of cheap trinkets that you might buy in market at Tijuana or Rosarito, but which Mexicans evidently take a lot more seriously than Americans–and they started a lively conversation about the best places to buy little paintable figurines, etc, which kept them occupied for most of the trip. In the mean time, I asked Adriana why we had the privilege of accompanying them on this business venture, and she responded that her mom thought it was a really cool place that I’d enjoy visiting. So we drove. We arrived at a carpentry enterprise where they sold baskets, paintable figurines, small flowerpot holders, and the like. Adriana’s mom and her friends proceeded to very carefully inspect every item in the store. After about five minutes, my interest in paintable figurines had just about been sated, and I wandered outside to see if there was anything more interesting out there. There wasn’t. So again, I sat down and started to ruminate (again, not aided by the fact that it was now past noon and I hadn’t had anything to eat yet). Finally, after about two hours there, they were ready to go get some food. We got some of the traditional cuisine of Pachuca, which greatly improved my mood, and headed back to Pachuca…where we went directly to another manualidades shop, because Adriana was helping her aunt for another two hours. At this point I managed to explain that I wanted a bit of fresh air and took a walk by myself around the general area, although they seemed somewhat puzzled by why I would want to be away from people. Finally, around 9, we left…and then stopped by another relative’s house, where Adriana and I waited in the car for almost another hour while her mom went inside to talk to the family. 

At the end of this day, I was somewhat frustrated with Adriana’s mom and Mexico in general, but thinking about it further, it threw into relief some sharp cultural differences.  Both Americans and Mexicans, I believe, hold hospitality and generosity as virtues; however, we have different notions of what that means. To an American (at least, as I perceive it), hospitality means “Come in, help yourself, make yourself at home.” I primarily conceive of my role as host as providing a “home base” from which the guest can do his or her own thing. If their own thing” happens to include me, then I’ll try to adjust my schedule accordingly, but basically, my job is to provide some sort of accommodations. In Mexico, at least as I perceive it, if the guest ever gets to the point where he HAS to “make yourself at home,” that means that the host has failed. Guests are expected to be waited on hand and foot and have all of their basic needs met by the host, who is expected to make spending time with the guest THE priority for the duration of their stay. Americans emphasize “quality time;” for Mexicans, all time is quality time. 

As such, I can perceive two basic reasons for my last minute ‘invitation’ to join this epic quest. The first might be that, however platonic our relationship, her mother didn’t relish the thought of me spending all day unchaperoned with her daughter, which is understandable; however, where an American might have remedied that situation with a conversation (something to the effect of `you mess with my daughter, I mess with you`) this direct approach would be considered offensive to someone from this culture, and so the situation can be peaceably remedied through a social invitation. However, more fundamentally, I think it comes down to a difference in priorities. Since relationship is the key, I think that the assumption is that, if you come to visit, you came to VISIT, so that means spending time with together, with the actual activities as a comparatively insignificant detail. 

All that to say, I found the re-adjustment to a different culture harder than I expected, but at the same time, I am constantly humbled at the power of the generosity that has been shown to me. In the duration of my time here, I have not been allowed to purchase my own food while in the company of a group. I realized on Friday morning that Adriana and her mom don’t have a guest room; they were sharing a bed so that I could use Adriana’s. To be a guest is really to be family, and for all of its idiosyncrasies and frustrations, family’s a pretty cool thing.