Since I was last on the blog (I’m enjoying the resemblance of this word to a toilet), I have celebrated two different birthdays, in two different cities, done an annoyingly large amount of solo classroom teaching, and realised that cold has been redefined. Surprisingly, I’ve enjoyed all of these things, although I moaned and moaned and moaned about the solo teaching. Life isn’t interesting if there isn’t one thing marring the perfection.
The weekend was spent in Xalapa, with a gaggle of other assistants, for Jezzabel’s birthday. Cue salsa dancing, tequila, mariachi concert and a personal serenade for Jezza, karaoke and nigh-outnumbering Mexicans in sheer British presence. There are some points during this weekend which are a little hazy - we can blame that on number two on the above list. Sometimes I forgot what country I was in – number six can be held responsible for this. And I had a top-notch fin de semana – all of the above should plead guilty for this. The party was in a family restaurant, which was taken over by us for the night, along with a vat of mole and a ridiculous amount of confetti. I’m still finding bits of the coloured poison in my belongings, thanks to kids thinking it’s funny to throw it over you all night. Even when you’re holding a drink.
Mama Callie notched up another year this week as well, and so a late-night jarrocho band session (one harp, three jaranas – those little Mexican guitars which provoke a slightly ecstatic reaction in my being) along with coffee, sandwiches and an improvised biscuit cake from yours truly. Bearing in mind it was my handiwork, it wasn’t too laughable. You can at least make out the name written on it, and along with the huge heartfelt hug I gave her, it was apt for Mama’s 64th year.
The days are getting nippier at the moment, I’m whipping the jumpers out, and even considering investing in a jacket. The rain which seems to be accompanying it is an unwelcome visitor, but the refreshing weather makes me feel that bit closer to the blizzard in Europe. I also had my first major nostalgic moment since I got to Mexico. It happened during a private French class I was giving to an adult student. I was talking about the weather, and about clothes, and as usual, most of the lesson was me giving ‘cultural’ titbits. We’d hit the point where I test him on words we’ve seen so far, and I found my mind wondering, for an instant, to the French Alpes, and more specifically, to idyllic, innocent times spent with my mémé, my maternal grandma. Before my student could even remember what the word I’d asked him meant, I felt tears suddenly welling up. I blinked them away as soon as I felt my ducts prickle and carried on being a competent tutor. But I enjoyed the visit to my childhood memory bank. Thanks mémé.
Now for a little aside. I’ve come to realise that it looks from the outside...oh, and sod it, the inside too, that most of my entourage are of the opposite sex. Most of my mates have members. A good deal of my company emanate testosterone. And so? Cosoleacauqe is a small place. I mean, no bank in the town small. Girls/women (can’t quite decide which I want to be yet) my age are either students who are stuck to their boyfriends’ mouths and are rabid with jealousy when they see me approaching with my louche English air, or they already have a husband and offspring. Most girls around here don’t go out drinking, or sit around chatting until the early hours. Instead I have ‘big brothers’, mates, people who I feel comfortable with. I don’t check what’s in their underwear before I embark on a friendship. I follow the way the breeze of circumstances blows me. And this is where I am right now. I do have female friends, and the girls in the house are the people who I can talk to most frankly. Unless I’m chatting to Guy Franks – then it’s pretty ‘Frank’ arfarf.
