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This is a newcomer to the considerable fermented milk market in Mexico: Lala Cult

Lala Cult

They threaten to be the Mexican monopoly dairy, but I will always prefer my beloved Yakult when it comes to this kind of thing. At times it feels as if there really is a cult of Lala that conspires to keep me from being able to buy unusual dairy products offered only by smaller dairies.

Here the Lala cult can be seen surveiling potential teenage adherents, which they will approach later in an effort to induct them.

Lala Cult on the prowl

In any case, I read through it and it made me think of some of the fabulous enchiladas that I have had here in Mexico that are similar to these in one way or another. Some had a sauce resembling this, a simplified mole poblano of sorts, and some - like the delicious enchiladas mineras I bought on the street of Guanajuato - with a filling that echoed the one in this recipe, although without the beef.

While I could never hope to compete with the amazing Mexican food blog Mexico Cooks! run by our friend Cristina, I thought this column's readers might enjoy taking a look at these, because the recipe illustrates the level of complexity that can be involved in traditional Mexican cooking, and who knows? Perhaps one of you might have the guts to give it a try.

This particular style of enchilada is not common here, but I can attest to the fact that the flavors and methods employed are the real deal.

This taco stand services the gay club (Caudillos, Avenida Prisciliano Sánchez 407) across the street, and is only open at night on the days the club is open. And yes, the name means exactly that: gay tacos. Although, as the front of their awning states, they also serve hot dogs, quesadillas, lonches and gringas.

Tacos Gay, Av. Prisciliano Sánchez

As one can see, they were closed when we went by there, but Charles asked a local storekeeper about them.

"¿Se sirven con chile?" he asked. I cracked up.

I have uploaded a selection of our vacation photograps as a flickr set, complete with links to further information on the attractions pictured therein.

While I was away and I would think of tacos, these would be the tacos I would see and taste in my mind. Two corn tortillas, soft to the point of breaking apart, wrapped around a little spoonful of delicious goodness, served up on a plastic plate that has been covered with a plastic bag for easy clean-up. Putting some onions from the chiles en escabeche on it, a little cabbage, possibly a drizzle of salsa habanera...it is like Mexico in your mouth.

Charles still takes me to run errands, when he is not too busy with his new business. He installs porous concrete, and is often traveling all over the country for work. Today we will go stock up on all the things I need to get the kitchen pantry back in operation. I will probably buy a new mop too. The one I have had for the past four years has earned a peaceful retirement.

But first, tacos.

I started out writing about moving from the United States to Mexico because I was sick of the place that the United States had become and I was excited about what Mexico was and had the chance to be. A passionate hunger to learn and understand my new city and her people swept me off my feet and kept my days filled with adventure. As if exploring all the quirks and charms of a new lover, I was obsessed. I spent every day with her. I woke up with a head full of plans for what we would do all day, and went to bed dreaming of what would be tomorrow.

"It sounds like you plan on being down there for some time then," people would write to us, despite our repeatedly stating upon our departure that we left with no plans to ever return.

To this day, there are no such plans. In fact, despite what many have suggested to be a change in the political landscape in the United States that would allow us to realize the deep-seated desire they claim we surely must have to return there, we are just as thankful to have detached and gotten away from there as we have always been. My year abroad only reinforced that feeling for me, even though I got to experience the new management. Many liberals ignored the tell-tale signs that President Obama would fail to pursue the implementation of the great changes implied by his rhetoric, and after so many dark years with no hope, it is understandable that they might get carried away on the intoxicating feeling that finally having a voice can bring. We were not among their number, possibly because as gays, a group that barely even gets lip service from the Democratic party, we know the pattern all too well. We did not expect much meaningful change from a new administration. It is the populace that needs reform. The bottom line is that the United States will have to undergo massive social upheaval before we consider any plans to return there willingly, and if what seems to be the current majority has its way, we will be gone forever.

Yet while our course has become, if anything, more determined, time has changed the situation, putting the relevance of this blog to readers in either country in question. For a while, that young infatuation with Mexico, felt through the heart of a defecting estadounidense, might have held some interest for others in the United States as a voyage of discovery through new territory. Some Mexicans told me that they enjoyed reading my blog because it let them see their country through the childlike eyes of an immigrant. However, I can no longer claim such a perspective. My jejune love for Guadalajara has grown into seasoned, intricate relationship. I still am charmed by her beauty and warmth, but a much more intimate knowledge informs our discourse, illuminates our way together and bonds us in a union that is at times harmonious and at others discordant. Pure observation and interpretation does not hold much interest for me anymore.

So what now for the blog in this new era? I am not yet sure. Maybe I will find that I am only capable of generating the same kind of material as you are used to here, but I think I need a change. I may need to throw off the limitation of having all the entries be about Mexico, Guadalajara or being an expatriate. I may need to just sit down and write without such a specific focus and see how it goes. It would probably make the most sense to move that to a different blog and keep this on-topic, but as I said, I find that a lot of the Mexico/Guadalajara aspects have been internalized now, and I suspect they will come out regardless of what I write about. Maybe it will turn out that this is the end of an era.

Watch this space.

It is brief, and the recommendations are pretty standard. The photo that accompanies the article is of a club that is a few blocks from our apartment though.

I got to explore what it would be like to live day to day in another reality that was not mine, just by being plunked down in the middle of it. I did things I had never done and learned whatever happened to people that had long since vanished from my memory. I found out things I should have known before but did not. I lived moments I could have never imagined that I will forever remember. I set into motion a thousand little events that will have consequences long after my departure.

Back home, I am now learning about the life Shawn lived here alone, the friends he made, the stories they have. Three sets of neighbors cycled in our apartment building during my absence, and the little boy that mows the lawn and trims the trees with his father grew a moustache and nearly a foot taller. Our neighborhood left its parent chain but retained most of their menu. The federal government allowed personal use quantities of all recreational drugs without penalty and a group of lawmakers in Mexico City proposed legislation to permit same-sex marriage. Charles' older daughter came to study at university but left to go back to Baja California Norte, and his younger daughter with Carmen started to talk. Larry and Joseph moved, again, and the city got another new bus line that everyone hates, again.

The gulf separating the two different timelines is impossible to merge, like trying to knit back together landmasses rent by continental drift. I do not bridge the gap. I did not have one foot in one place and another in the other. I was simply gone, living another life somewhere else for a year. Now I am back in Mexico, and my life has returned again to being so different from what I grew up with. It feels so good to be home where things are so unfamiliar. Sure, many of the wonderful things I remember about Guadalajara remain, like the fragrant, flowering trees that bloom at night, the music everywhere, the tacos…oh, the tacos! Still, my favorite thing of all is that feeling of not knowing what comes next. It could be anything. I just get to kick back and relax in this lush paradise and wait for it. I just know that something good is going to happen.

A bit lighter and more frivolous, I intend to use it when I want to post something quickly without much elaboration.

It will not appeal to everyone. You know what I am talking about.

Tonight, in looking at the list of languages by number of native speakers in Wikipedia, I discovered la lengua de señas mexicana. It does have some similar signs to ASL, which might be due to the fact that ASL and LSM have roots in Old French Sign Language (OFSL). According to Wikipedia, ASL predates LSM by 50 years, so the two are mutually unintelligible.

Maybe. I have not yet studied LSM, but I intend to start. One of the AULEX [english] dictionaries (in the Spanish version) is an español->lengua de las sigñas mexicana dictionary. Video examples of sentences replace the often bewildering drawings of sign execution, making for much easier understanding of the signs. The site even has a video basic sign set and a pdf-formatted introduction.

The interface for the online video dictionary for ASL dictionary by ASLPro.com is a little cumbersome, but it might help if you want to make some comparisons between LSM and ASL.

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.

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.

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.

I came across this Flickr photostream while looking for information on the cool-yet-creepy, defunct auditorium that I saw when I went to check out the Monumento a la Revolución this afternoon, the Frontón México.

I really enjoyed browsing through her photographs of Mexico. She has an interesting sensibility and captures a lot of stuff that one doesn't usually see in people's photos of Mexico.

The secret legal opinions issued by Bush administration lawyers after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks included assertions that the president could use the nation's military within the United States to combat people deemed as terrorists and to conduct raids without obtaining a search warrant.

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