Feliz Navidad

My neighborhood makes a tremendous transformation every evening. By day, it is dusty and ramshackle. But by night, the light disappears and Tijuana is blanketed in twinkling lights for as far as the eye can see. I know that Christmas is relatively popular world wide. But for some reason, I didn't expect to see cars whizzing by with Christmas trees tied to the top and little pick ups sporting reindeer horns here in TJ. In the evenings, the run down shops in my neighborhood plug in the Christmas lights that adorn their windows and the town suddenly looks quaint. I feel as though I am in a small, homey village that is not American, not Mexican or even European, but from some other place and time.

I am excited to go home for Christmas. Alec was a little more hesitant. When we did our big Asia trip we both had dreams that for some reason, we had to go home in the middle of the trip and were unable to return. Middlebury discouraged people from going home, even for holidays, while we were studying in Spain. Their prime concern was language development; two weeks spent speaking English only would set people back. A lot of students were just hitting their stride around Christmas and would go home, only to return to Madrid and become horribly homesick again. I feel differently than I did in Asia. I knew I would come back to Spain when I went home during grad school, I had to finish my program. All my stuff was there. I had an apartment. And I know I will return to TJ. I have a job here. People are expecting me.

I went over Profe Hector's house to eat pozole last weekend. I think he is one of my few, real friends here. While others view my cultural blunders as a sign of my innate stupidity, Profe Hector finds them hilarious. We talk about the students that irritate us without fear of being accused of not being a real, child loving teacher. He lets me borrow his Almodovar movies and eat his lunch when I don't have any. When Hector enters the school with a snarl on his face, wearing his crazy, gold rimmed seventies sunglasses, I know he, like many teachers at my school, was simply napping in his car in the parking lot, having arrived a little early from his morning teaching job. He and his roommate, Karen, are curious about Casa del Migrante. "My house was Casa del Migrante when I lived by the border!" Hector exclaimed, explaining that various friends and family members used his place as a way station before crossing the border illegally. "Look, Oil of Olay is on sale!" he pointed out shortly afterwards, as we perused the sale magazines the boy that wore 'pants' now puts in every one's door, after deciding that school wasn't for him.

The months have gone by quickly, though it seems like a long time ago when Alec and I arrived at the Hotel Riviera and wandered around TJ trying to figure it out. I remember my crazy flight from Atlanta to Mexico City and then, to Tijuana. I sat there, watching the people cram their luggage into the overhead bins and search for their seats. I was a little hungover and concerned about my haphazard packing job. Someone caught my eye. A Mexican man, with a tight, cowboy style shirt on, unbuttoned to his waist, showing his chiseled chest and multitude of gold crucifixes. He wore a huge cowboy hat, tight jeans with a belt sporting a tremendous, jewel crusted buckle and obligatory cowboy boots. As he sat down, I noticed "Ranch" carefully embroidered on the back of his shirt. "I wish I was him..." sighed the pasty, overweight businessman to my left. So did I. The rock star ordered an orange juice and promptly went to sleep, his cowboy hat carefully balanced on the toe of his boot.