But I will celebrate in another way: by writing about my Mexican family. This family, who lives in Pachuca, a city about 45 minutes from Mexico City, epitomizes Latin American hospitality. I met them shortly after graduate school, after I spent some time in Guanajuato and battled my first really irritating stomach bacteria (it was doing to me what the Mexicans did to the French in 1862). I was close to returning to the United States, but called this family. I knew about them from a friend I had met on a trip during grad school, a Cuban who had spent some time with them when he traveled to Mexico, touring with a musical group. Not much of a connection, but that was all I needed.
I had talked to them a couple times from the states, but when I called them from Guanajuato to tell them I was going home soon, they insisted that I not do so until I came to see them. They made me promise I wouldn’t leave without coming for a visit first. How could I refuse? I spent a few days in Mexico City, hanging out with a friend I knew from grad school and staying with a Mexican woman who had been at the university’s English Institute when we were students. I saw as many Diego Rivera murals as I could, took a boat ride on the Xochimilco canals, hung out near the Zócalo, and checked out the homes of Frida Kahlo and Leon Trotsky. My hostess was hardly around, so I toured the enormous city on my own, or with Joe, who thankfully clued me in to the microbus, bus and subway systems (and the best way to get a taxi). Then I decided to head to Pachuca for a long weekend.
When I got off the bus in Pachuca, I walked into the station and stood there, looking around for someone looking for me. Pretty soon a woman ran to me, smiling and happy, hugging me as if I were her long lost sister, taking my hand to lead me to their car. Instantaneously, I was a part of the family. The mother, Margarita; the father, Javier; the kids, Arturo, Javiercito, Rosita, and niece, Linda. And a pregnant dog named Danna. They lived in a modest, comfortable home that was a part of a shared family building where a number of other family members lived. They were so happy to have me there. They fed me and wouldn’t let me pay for anything. They took me to the nearby town of Real del Monte to try the famous local dish, pastes, a type of empanada (or turnover pastry) with sweet or savory fillings. I told them I was interested in taking a bus to the pre-Columbian ruins of Teotihuacán, and instead they took the day off and drove me there themselves. The oldest kids, Arturo and Linda, students at a university in Mexico City at the time, took me to a cool, local coffee shop to hang out and discuss poetry, music and politics. After that weekend, when they drove me to the bus station, the entire family came to see me off. I won’t lie; there were some tears. Not just from me either.
My visit lived on in the puppies that were born a few days after I left. On the day we visited Teotihuacán, there came a point in the rather hot and sunny afternoon when I needed to break for some food. I was speaking Spanish 100% of the time with this family, but I didn’t know the equivalent for “snack.” So as I so often do, I compromised and tried Spanishizing the English word. Had I been speaking English, I would’ve said, “I could use a little snack.” But instead I said, “Necesito un snakicito” (ito/ita or cito/cita can be put at the end of Spanish words to basically imply “little,” e.g. small town = pueblito; little Javier = Javiercito). After further explanation of my new word, the family quickly adopted it. So when Danna, the pregnant dog gave birth, they named the puppy más güero (lightest) “Snakicito” in my honor. An honor indeed.
I saw the family again about five years later for a few days over Christmas before meeting a friend down in Oaxaca. And now, the college students are full-fledged adults, one of them married. Even Rosita, now known as Rosy, is grown up. She was only 10 when I met her and now she is in her 20s. Even though I don’t see them much, and we don’t stay in contact as much as we’d like to, I know they are there, my friends from Pachuca, mi familia Mexicana. I could call them today with, “Hey, I’m coming down” and they would tell me “We’re waiting for you. See you soon.” To that I say, ¡Viva México!
I’m sorry to report that although I have great photos of my times in Pachuca, none of them are presently accessible. I will try to post some down the road when I can get them out of storage.
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