Don’t Stop Believin’—Hold on to Authenticity
The Beetles’ “Here Comes the Sun” trickles through the speakers as I attempt to order pancakes in Spanish. I’m seated for breakfast in a small, colorful hostel in the middle of Guanajuato, Mexico. In just a few minutes, I’ll be on my way to Escuela Mexicana for my fourth day of Spanish lessons. Hopefully, today we’ll learn the word for “pancakes,” but for now, I’m glad to hear something familiar: “Here comes the sun,/ do do do do,/ here comes the sun,/ and I say, It’s alright….” Upon hearing this song, however, I am reminded of a particularly sunny day last week during our stay in San Miguel. I can’t help but notice lately that in Central Mexico, cultural dichotomies and contradictions seem to seep from the woodwork of every single paint-peeled door.
I wish I hadn’t forgotten my sunglasses that day. The thing about sunglasses is that they always seem to provide that James Bond sense of “incognito” even when you’re sitting somewhere as obvious as I was: smack dab in the middle of a roof-top patio in broad daylight. With my pale, sun-scorched skin, blonde curly mane, and gray-blue eyes, you can imagine just about how much I stick out in this country no matter what I wear on my face.
Until then I’d been alone. It was remarkably quiet too but for the music in the café on the other side of the patio. The traffic and marketplace are somehow muted by this little haven away from the new world in which I’m guest. Maybe, I didn’t hear it, because, I’d finally gotten used to the constant buzz of concentrated living, talking, traveling people. This concept seemed pretty unlikely, however, because growing up in rural Kansas, you could say I’ve been “conditioned” to think any sort of inorganic sound is unnatural. At my home, ten dirt-road miles away from the nearest “highway,” it’s uncommon to hear anything but the sound of my own breath. On a lazy afternoon like this, instead of car horns, the only thing I’d be lucky enough to hear in Washington County is the occasional distressed cow.
Right then, however, the peacefulness I’d been so fortunate to find was shattered by an older couple, who, while strolling casually across the patio, were conversing about indigestion and timeshares in Mexico. The gentleman’s phone began to ring—a piercing rendition of “Uptown Girl” that only U.S. Cellular can provide. He almost lost his Yankees baseball cap as he scrambled to answer it, shouting “Hello! Hello!? Can you hear me now?! Yeah!” He and his wife scuried away on stage left to locate a better signal. I feel more exposed now than ever.
On the other side of the patio, in the small out-door dining café, someone must have been messing with the sound system volume. The song choice takes me off guard, but I close my eyes and nod my head as Coldplay fills my brain and steals the remaining silence: “When she was just a girl/ She expected the world/ But it flew away from her reach so/ She ran away in her sleep/ And dreamed of/ Para-para-paradise….”
As I’m about to lose myself in this little fragment of my own culture, I’m jerked back to reality by a slight tugging on my sleeve. My eyes fly open and meet another pair, much darker than mine. A little girl and her younger brother stand before me on the pavement—shoeless. They ask timidly if I’d want to purchase anything. I glance into their grubby, white, five-gallon bucket and inhale the subtle scent of cactus wedges and roasted seeds. Handing the girl some pesos from my pocket, I pick out a bag of spiced seeds. The girl mumbles her thanks, taking her brother’s smaller, but dutiful hand. I guess that they’re pumpkin seeds. The hearty, earthy flavor and the chili spices wake up my stomach, making me realize that it’s been hours since my last meal.
A group of Americans, literally with fanny packs and cameras, almost knock the girl’s bucket out of her hand as she hurriedly mumbles her feeble sales pitch. A woman with a stroller and stoplight lipstick catches her husband’s arm. “Careful dear!” The group of eight or so keeps walking. One girl, about the same age as the one I just encountered, complains loudly to the stroller lady that she’s tired and “when can they go eat?” I watch as the girl with the bucket stares after them for a moment, then turns to walk away. The shadows devour her and her brother as they disappear through a hole in the wall, into the belly of the marketplace. I turn my attention back to the group that has stopped at the edge of the wall to point and take pictures of the scenery. A woman who reminds me of my grandmother makes a comment about how cheap things are here in San Miguel, but “my gosh, how ethnic!”
Eventually they migrate to the far side of the patio to the café. I overhear them ordering their lunch, not bothering with any Spanish, of a waiter who speaks no English. Coming from somewhere inside the restaurant, I can make out the words of a famous Michael Jackson song: “They told him don't you ever come around here/ Don't wanna see your face, you better disappear/ The fire's in their eyes and their words are really clear/ So beat it, just beat it….” I listen to America here in Mexico, wishing I could disappear into the bright yellow wall I’m propped against. There is no solution though—I am of obvious European-American heritage, like the couple with the Uptown Girl ringtone, like the woman who appreciates ethnic knick-knacks. Like them I speak practically no Spanish.
Back at the breakfast table in Guanajuato, I have received my coffee, but haven’t the foggiest idea how to ask for creamer in Spanish. I’m still waiting on my pancakes as well. The wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen teases my stomach, still weak from all the times I’ve gotten ill here so far. This is yet another obstacle that makes it difficult to blend in this country—the ongoing stomach issues. Surprisingly though, most of my ailments have come from riding public transportation rather than from the food. My efforts to overcome this had also tested my language abilities.
For example, the day before, my traveling group and I were boarding a bus for Leon. I decided it would probably be to my advantage to actually sit in the front of the boat-like vehicle. Unfortunately, by the time I could board, the only seat available was next to a sour-looking middle-aged Mexican man. I inquired politely, with lots of nonverbal communication, if I might be able to take the window seat next to him. I never did quite make out a definite response. He sort of shook his head but shrugged his shoulders simultaneously. There was no time for discussion though, as the bus had just begun to bumble out of the station. I dove into the seat, grazing my head on the bag compartment. I settled down into my cushy spot by the window and glanced over. The man had not shifted in the slightest and his face had resumed its pained qualities from before. I apologized to him over and over in my head, but couldn’t seem to telepathically convey my sympathy. As “I’m Sexy and I Know it” blasts on repeat from the driver’s radio, we sit in complete silence for the entire bus ride to Leon—me, occasionally looking over with my best “apologetic, but friendly” expression. I pray that I’m not the worst example of an American he’s come across.
The waitress has returned to wait on the table behind me. I quickly skim the menu for the correct words. I’m just going to take a stab at it. As she turns toward my slightly raised hand, I say, “Leche por favor?” The waitress who reminds me of my best friend’s mom nods her head enthusiastically and grins. Bingo. While I wait, the rest of my traveling group walks into the restaurant, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and their conversation buzzing with highlights of the night before. Two days ago, we had the pleasure of meeting some new friends—Jorge, Martin, and Rodrigo—all of whom speak English and have unexpected taste in music.
In Guanajuato you never know what kind of music you’ll hear. I walked into a bagel café and heard the soundtrack from the movie “Burlesque.” I couldn’t complain, it’s one of my favorite movies, but I couldn’t hide my astonishment either.
The night I meet him, Jorge tells us his favorite kind of music is 1980s music. I take a moment to pick my jaw up off the floor, brush it off, and reattach it as he begins to belt “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey with an air guitar and hair-tossing enthusiasm. Jorge’s English is very good. He and Rodrigo study many other languages as well at Universidad de La Salle in hopes of becoming book translators. Martin, after being introduced to us the other day as a shy engineering major, apologized that his English is “not very good.” But it has become embarrassingly apparent that Martin’s English is remarkably better than our Spanish. Interestingly enough though, we’ve come across many people just like Martin, who say they can’t speak English, but do. After supper, as I trek with the group across downtown Guanajuato back to our hostel, I quiz Jorge to see just how many 80s songs he knows. Journey songs are a given, Sonny and Cher, Cheap Trick, Billy Joel, REO Speedwagon. I’m surprised but slightly troubled, too, by the infiltration of my culture when he tells me he also adores Frank Sinatra, U2, and Nirvana. As a Mexican, he listens to popular music from his own culture as well—and no, this does not include the singer Pitbull. What amazes me the most about Jorge and his friends, however, is not only how easily we get along with them, but how American culture is an integral part of their identities. Rodrigo is a huge fan of Taylor Swift, and Martin lives in Mexico, but that doesn’t stop him from being an avid American college football fan. I am shocked when I realize that somehow, in this city, in this country, “American” is not a foreign concept at all. When our plane first landed in Mexico, I’ll admit, my stereotypes of “authentic Mexican culture” were more than a little skewed. Never did I once dream that I’d be singing to Evanescence or having a conversation about American college sports. No, surely I’d left that all behind. My encounter with our Mexican friends, though, had opened my eyes to the enormous gray area around the word “authenticity.” Jorge lives in Leon, Mexico, but speaks French and listens to Billy Joel. And then I got to thinking about it. I live in Palmer, Kansas, but I have a weakness for sushi and watch Doctor Who religiously. Suddenly, my fear of standing out in this new world suddenly seemed completely irrational.
The waitress has returned with a small pitcher of creamer and, finally, a plate of pancakes. I’m in a time-crunch to get to my Spanish class, so I begin to shovel down my breakfast. After two bites, however, I discover I’m missing the syrup. The waitress has already gone, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to ask for Aunt Jemima. But, now, as Mariah Carey’s voice pours slow and sweet like molasses from the speakers above me, I smile to myself. Today, right now, this is enough.
Watch Carole read her story here