« March 2009 | Main | September 2009 »
August 24, 2009
The Importance of Small Talk
I had forgotten how crucial small talk is to daily life in Guadalajara.
It is common in southern Illinois, of course, but it is not required. A standard, "Good afternoon. How are you?" will suffice to maintain the image that you are civil, and any further discussion of things such as the others hairstyle, their children, or that perrenial favorite, the weather, is purely optional, although many do indulge regularly.
In Guadalajara, small talk is mandatory, unless you want people to think you are arrogant, angry or just an outright ass. After living here for about a year, we found out that our neighbors thought that I was always mad because I did not engage in conversation with them to a greater extent. All I would do when we would meet in the hallway was to say "good afternoon" (or morning, or night, depending), ask how they were doing, answer back how I was doing, and close with a comment appropriately based on their divulged status. It might not actually be in that exact order, but our exchanges always contained those basic elements.
For example:
Me: ¡Buenas tardes!
Neighbor: ¡Buenas tardes!
Me: Y ¿cómo estas?
Neighbor: Bien, bien. ¿Y tú?
Me: ¡Qué bueno! ¿Yo? Bien, bien. Gracias. ¡Hasta luego!
There you have it. The rant of an angry man.
Not knowing our neighbors all that well at first, I did not have very much about which I could speak to them back then. Also, I was new to being in Mexico, did not yet have a complete picture of reality here, and had very little applied Spanish-speaking experience. Perhaps most importantly, I had come from the United States, where a polite wave and silent nod to your neighbor is sufficient. Little did I know, that such a brief exchange here in Mexico suggests that one is a child-molesting axe murderer, or some other social equivalent.
After a while, I came to be much more vocal with our neighbors, as it became obvious that they did not dislike us for being gay, gringo and gorgeous. Spending time with them discussing things at the apartment building parties gave me plenty of material I could use for small talk - how Carlos' bronchitis was doing, the progress of young Jorge's artistic pursuits, what was Marta baking next - it was all great stuff for stretching out those interactions in the hallway. I began to use those opportunities to delve a bit deeper and find out a little more about people, which in turn allowed me even better mastery of such chit-chat. Eventually, I came to realize that pleasant banter is one of the best things about life in Mexico.
I repeat again something that our friends Larry and Joseph pointed out to us, and that is, Mexico is about 50 behind the United States in a number of things. To avoid offending my Mexican friends and the few that watch this space, I should point out that they specifically meant "behind" in a chronological context. In some senses, this socio-temporal positioning makes life seem more advanced and civilized than in more developed countries. Mexico seems much more like the United States when common goals brought people together than it does now that political and social issues are polarizing them.
In Mexico, there is a comity that permeates the entire culture, elevates everyone to a certain level of dignity, and helps society stick together through misery and misfortune. Mexico seems like the United States of old, before competition turned from friendly to fierce, when compassion was not considered a weakness. People err on the side of kindness here and are much less paranoid about everyone else being out to harm or exploit them. A stranger next to you in line at the bank will start talking to you without hesitation. Adults can converse with someone elses children in a public setting without everyone suspecting nefarious ulterior motives. One can admire another's fashion without it being taken as making a pass.
Small talk is appropriate for public situations and dealing with strangers. It is manditory for those developing relations in Mexico, in personal life as well as business. Most initial "getting to know you" business meetings take place not in an office, but within some other social context like breakfast or lunch. At such meetings, the great majority of the conversation might be small talk, with the business motives for getting together hardly being adressed initially. To succeed in business in Mexico, one must not be in a rush. It will be counterproductive. Just take your time, relax, and enjoy the simple pleasure of friendly, polite conversation. You will be back to the hustle and bustle of business soon enough.
I have come to really look forward to small talk with my neighbors now. It is interesting to know what everyone is up to and what is going on in our neighborhood. When beginning to work on my interactions with our neighbors, I have to admit that I had to do a little mental prepartion each time, recalling the names of relatives, friends and pets to whom I had been introduced, coming up with certain things to ask about, and making sure I knew the proper vocabulary for what I planned to talk about. Every time I was about to leave the apartment building, I would rehearse a description of what I was off to do, so that if I ran into someone and had to engage in small talk, I could eventually slide into a farewell and continue on my way. Now though, I can do it without too much extra effort.
Except for the fact that, having been gone for nearly eight months, I am a bit out of practice.
For more on this subject, see Mexperience's guide to business etiquette in Mexico and byki language learning's flash card application on conversation starters.
Posted by crispy at 05:59 PM | Comments (3)
August 20, 2009
Primero, pido disculpas por mi español muy feo.
Off the plane, things are immediately all switched around. The jetway splits left/right. Right and up goes to national flight baggage. Left and down takes you to an international processing plant.
There, another surprise. INM first, then get your bags. I am unprepared and have to set down in the hallway to retrieve the proper forms: my FM3 (the little green book I am back in Mexico to renew), a copy of a form filled out when leaving the country and held onto the entire time I was away, and my passport from the US of A. The quiet agent gives me none of the accusing questions or odd looks typical of an immigration officer. A couple of swipes with a rubber stamp and I am picking up my suitcase, just now coming around the carousel.
Last but not least, aduana. A cheery, young tapatia takes my form and greets me with, "Buenas noches." The words "buenos días" are already out of my mouth, having been calculated and configured in advance as the automatic standard greeting appropriate for the hour.
"Ay sí. Sí es la mañana," she says, correcting herself.
I briefly feel like an ass, not having meant to correct her; I smile sheepishly and nod. She scans the form and guides me to the stand with a buzzer and two lights, one green and one red. Pushing the button will result in my getting one or the other. If I get green, I can pass on through and make my way home. If I get red, I win an inspection of all my bags. This surreal game show always seems to me a perfect embodiment of the Mexican love of fun and frivolity, wherever it can be applied. I am a little surprised that they do not have bikini-clad girls attending each buzzer, ready to smile at you if you win, and offer a sad, melodramatic pout if you lose. I suspect if they had it in the budget, they would.
Green it is! Another happy traveler wins the chance to come back again. I pass through the sliding doors of the processing area leading into the main terminal, where a bubbling crowd awaits, held back by stanchions and belts to allow a pathway for the newly arrived to make our way through. Even though nobody is waiting for me, the throng make me feel like a rock star having come for a grand tour. There is an electricity in the air. ¡Bienvenidos a México!
Having dealt with Americans for the past few months, I am expecting counter personnel to be surly and gruff. I step up to the taxi counter prepared to rattle off a string of various descriptions to indicate where I need to go - the neighborhood, the closest major intersection, the zone number on the map. Before I can even reach the booth, the attendant sees me coming, smiles and waves me closer.
"¿A dónde vas?"
"Aaaaaa...voy a Colonia Chapalita Sur..." I pause to look on the zone map to see what number I need to tell him, but he beats me to the punch, pointing straight to my neighborhood. He shows me the price of MXN $230 indicated on the rate sheet. For this, I am prepared. I pull out a $200 note, a $20 note and a $10 coin and pass it through the window. We exchange the "¡Gracias!" and I am out the front door to the line of waiting taxis.
Drizzle. There is brief confusion because I presume the airport taxis work like the other taxis in Guadalajara, but the last in line, not the first, is the one slated to take the next passenger. The driver takes my bag and says something in a string of rapid Spanish that I cannot make out at all. From his gestures at the puddle on the ground next to the passenger door, I understand that he is going to pull out so that I do not have to walk through water to get in. Ah, yes. Thoughtful courtesy. I had forgotten.
He puts my suitcase in the trunk, hustles to get in the car and pull from the curb, I step in, shut the door and tell him where my apartment is located, again ready to explain in more detail where he needs to go. Once again, it is unnecessary. The driver throws the car in gear and we are off.
Here it is, the moment for which I had been trying to prepare myself. My first real conversation in Spanish in five months. Incidents leading up to my trip - forgetting certain words, days of the week, common expressions - have me worried. I consider feining exhaustion and staying quiet, but I know this would be inappropriate, and actually, quite rude.
The driver does not give me the chance anyway, and asks me how long I have lived in Guadalajara.
I tell him, nearly four years, although I have been in the United States for the past seven months. I beg his forgiveness for my bad Spanish, as I have had little opportunity to practice in the United States. He asks me what I do, and being tired of explaining that I am a homemaker, I fib a little and tell him that I am a freelance writer in a very roundabout way because I do not know the proper way to say 'freelance.' He delves deeper into the subject and I begin to suspect that I am going to have to explain the whole situation anyway.
"¿Con quién vives aquí?" he asks. I find it odd that he presumes that I live with someone, but maybe it is presumed when one lives in an apartment, or more likely, he knows that a freelance writer is unlikely to make enough money to support himself properly. Or is he trying to hit on me?
I hesistate briefly, a holdover from growing up gay in the United States. Me, him, alone, driving through the outskirts late at night, I have the obligatory flashback: Matthew Sheppard, Sean Kennedy, Jack Twist. The paranoia passes. I am, after all, back in Mexico, where I have never had any trouble.
"Vivo con mi esposo. Aparte de ser escritor, soy 'el ama de casa'," I explain, getting closer to the real truth of my daily life.
He does what they always do, presuming that the silly gringo is mixing up genders. He repeats back a correction, "Ah, vives con tu esposa..."
"Pues, no. Con me esposo. Es hombre."
"Bueno, bueno. ¿Hace cuánto tiempo estás con él?"
He seemed to take that in stride.
"Dieciocho años. Casi dieciocho años...este fin de semana es nuestro aniversario."
"Y cuando regresas, no van a dormir esta noche."
I suspect I know what he is getting at, but it is not like Mexicans to jump into a discussion of such a personal issue, at least with strangers.
"Ah...mmmm...¿Mande?"
"Cuando regresas a tu departamento, ustedes van a estar en la cama esta noche, pero no van a dormir."
Despite any wish to seem Jack the lad, I know the truth of the matter. Plus I am not sure I want to go down this road, wherever it might be going.
"No, no. Él tiene que trabajar muy temprano y tengo mucho sueño por el viaje. Esta noche, vamos a dormir en la cama."
After a brief pause, he further delves into my nocturnal habits in a way I am not expecting.
"Y cuando te duermes, ¿llevas un camisón?"
I do not understand what a camisón is, but I hesitate before asking him to repeat himself.
"¿Mande? ¿Camis-qué?"
"En la cama, tu ropa. ¿Llevas ropa de dormir femenina?"
Wacky. I encounter this in Mexico far more than any kind of homophobia. Mexicans, at least the straight ones, often have a fascinated curiosity about how the other half lives. The notion still persists here that gay men are men the just want to be women. Maybe I should say, that is the only way a lot of people can get their head around the idea. He wants to know if I - no, he presumes that I - wear a woman's nightgown to bed.
I laugh a bit, seeing yours truly dressed up in lacy undergarments, then explain that I will just be wearing mis chones. I never wear anything else.
"Pero él, ¿sí?"
Yeah, surely one of us must be wearing women's clothing at some point.
"No. Él es más recatado. Siempre lleva un playera y pantalones cortos en la cama."
We sit quietly for a while, until we get close to my neighborhood. I tell him where to turn, how many more blocks until he turns left. It is at the stoplight, then right there on the corner.
I get out, he jumps out to help me with my bag. I hand him a tip and wish him a pleasant trip. He thanks me and says good-night.
I haul my luggage up to the door to the apartment building, trying hard not to disturb the still of the night in our quiet neighborhood. I notice that the lights are on in the bedroom of the young man that lives downstairs from us. I have missed him so much, I am tempted to go rap on his window to say hello, but I decide against it.
After fumbling to find the right key, one works and lets me in. I pause at the bottom of the stairs to read the notice about the payment for gas being due this week. The price has not gone up any since I left. I stand there, thinking about the new neighbors, friends of ours from before, that have moved into the apartment at the bottom of the stairs since last I was in the building. That happened several months ago.
I hoist my suitcase up the stairs, and see that the door to my apartment has been decorated by the neighbors with ribbons, balloons and a sign that reads, "¡BIENVENIDO CHRIS! TARDASTE MUCHO". Indeed I have.
I open the door, half expecting Shawn to be on the couch, having fallen asleep waiting up for me, but he is not there. He is back in the bedroom where the nighlight of the Virgin Mary that my friend Brian bought for me in Tijuana is shining on my nightstand. On the table I see a pie that was surely made for my return by Marta, yet another of our wonderful neighbors. I decide to save it for the morning, and I open the door to the balcony and turn on the ceiling fan.
I go out on the balcony and watch the empty intersection glowing in the rain and the light of the stoplight. I think about the last time I stood on the balcony, looking out on the street and thinking how much I was going to miss this place, the people, my life. I did not know then how long I would be away. I feared that when I stood out there once again, everything would be different.
In some ways it is, but life goes on. I think of my father, who would have loved Mexico if he had ever made it down here. I think about Charles and Carmen, and their little baby girl. I think about what it will be like when it is time to elect the next presidente. I think about the cab driver getting back to the airport and telling his compañeros that he just had a fare that was a gay guy that does not wear a nightgown to bed.
Posted by crispy at 11:20 AM | Comments (4)