Cuernavaca Journal: Day 3

When we get to breakfast this morning, Neil is already at the table. I haven't had a chance to speak to him very much at school, but he is in all of Kenny's classes.

We all greet each other with various levels of Spanish and Kenny and I begin to eat our fruit. Steaming Christmas mugs full of coffee show up in front of each of us. Merry Christmas! Neil tells everyone in Spanish, toasting in our general direction with a Frosty-the-Snowman mug. Chelo laughs and walks back to the kitchen.

Oh Senora.....Neil calls out. I have been wanting the milk, please. Some of Neil's sentence constructions remind me of David Sedaris essays -- especially the one where he goes to the doctor in Paris. I immediately capitalize on Neil's request and pour some milk into my coffee. Chelo goes back into the kitchen.

Oh....SenOOOOra....Neil calls out. I am breakfasting on how many eggs today?

Two, everybody gets two. Would you care for more? Chelo asks him.

No, thank you, this is just fine, but my wife will be wanting to know when I get home.

Over the next few days, Neil will turn out to be a near constant source of comic relief. But both Kenny and I are uncomfortable with the way he treats our hostess. He has been staying with the family exactly one day longer than we have. Listen, he tells us on the way to school, I paved the way for you people. Before I asked, there wasn't even any 1978 margarine for the dry toast!

In class, I start to realize that I am watching the clock. How ridiculous am I? I chose this vacation. I am paying for it. I am HAPPY to be improving my Spanish. Yet, apparently, my amazing capacity for dread trumps all of this. I spend a moment secretly evaluating my classmates. Are they looking forward to the break? To the comida? To after school shopping, touring and beer? I go back to my work and try to be in the moment...and in Spanish. In the Spanish moment. Every once in a while, the merriment from Kenny and Neil's class will interrupt ours. Their teacher, Marilu -- who also teaches one of my classes, has a very charming way of saying super...or super duper. Soooopair doooopair, she says. Also, apparently, Kenny has accidently told the class that he and I ate each other for breakfast instead of we ate breakfast together.

Today, back at Chelo's house, there is a big party. Because it's Wednesday. Every Wednesday, everybody related to Chelo in Cuernavaca eats comida at her house. This explains the 3 dining tables and two kitchens. Chicken mole will be served. I tell Chelo again that Kenny is allergic to nuts -- she tells me that she will have something else available for Kenny. Nuts are not a traditional ingredient in this particular mole recipe (many mole recipes do call for nuts) but she buys the paste already made -- so she can't be 100% sure about a total absence of nuts. The mole is wonderful -- served with crusty bread, iceberg lettuce, beans and salsa as always. Kenny gets a delicious looking chicken milanesa. Our classmate, Chislan, is there because he is staying in the home of Chelo's daughter. Chislan and I talk some in Spanish while Cesar, Chelo's son, corrects us. It turns out he used to teach at a different school -- like 30 yrs ago. That is how he met his American wife -- who teaches at a local Catholic school. Chelo has told me that she had all of her children (either 4, 6 or 7 of them -- I didn't understand the story completely) in this house with no more anesthetic than a cup of chamomile tea. But, in order to do this, you will need very strong tea, she tells me.

After comida, we hop a taxi to Las Mananitas -- an unbelievably expensive and beautiful hotel and restaurant. We just plan to have drinks in the garden. The garden is patrolled by a variety of peacocks and other tropical birds. It is really a beautiful place. I have a Negra Modelo with lime and snack on the complimentary tray of spicy peanuts, pepitas and potato chips with sour cream dip while Kenny has a $12 flan with a double expresso. The waiters are gracious and act as if we are very important even though we are in our sweaty school clothes and obviously not eating dinner. Mexican people, in general, are just very courteous. They are polite to each other and they (for the most part) treat visitors to their country with painstaking hospitality.

After our treats, we walk a couple of blocks, then take a taxi back to our neighborhood. While we are downtown -- in el centro -- we see the Palace of Cortez, which is now a museum, but we don't go in -- it's too late. Back in our own neighborhood, we walk by the taco family. Tacos? They ask us. Tomorrow we tell them. Tomorrow.

It is now day three for both of us without a bowel movement.