Qué padre

"The flight is delayed about forty minutes" the Interjet clerk informed us. The Tijuana airport is not the worst place to be at 1:00am on a Friday night. Unfortunately, it is not the most useful airport. Most domestic flights have odd take-off times and our 11:55pm flight to Puebla finally made it into the sky around 1:15am.

It had been a long day. I ventured into a project with my three hundred students, something I have avoided in the past for fear of grading them. "Profe, how do you say light-skinned in English?" I was asked over and over again while the students attempted to describe themselves on their poster boards. I have entertained this question multiple times with my African-American students in my Spanish classes in Atlanta. I was surprised to learn that in Spanish, not only are there morenos and people with piel claro but that they also have skin that is moreno-claro, which apparently means dark-light. How could I tell them that they are a fine group of Mexican bobcats, no matter how dark or light they are?

I actually slept, only to be roused by wheels hitting the ground in Mexico City around 4:00am. Due to a two hour time difference, the sun was up and Saturday had already begun. We caught a bus to Puebla and I promptly went back to sleep. Alec jostled me awake to see a smoking volcano on the outskirts of Puebla.

Who knew Puebla was so nice? All cities should have at least one ash capped, smoking volcano that is visible from the depths of an attractive, colonial city. I was completely swept up. I could go there - I saw universities, what the hell am I doing in dirty old TJ when places like Puebla exist? I found myself plotting, contemplating. When I've pondered extended, expatriate style experiences, I always imagined going to attractive places. I'd trot around, exist in a lovely environment and live an exotic, culturally different life that would wow my friends and neighbors. "Oh yeah," I'd say, "my apartment is 500 years old. The Spanish built it! Feel like getting a coffee?" Something tugged at the back of my mind. Anyone would want to live in Puebla. Or Madrid. Or countless other attractive cities worldwide. But could I do my superwoman antics there? Though I am obviously attracted to the pretty places, something in me wants to stay in the ugly places. It makes me feel useful. Not that I am saving anyone in TJ, but I feel like maybe I could if I could ever get my shit together.

We met up with some other teachers from the exchange and got a pinche awesome tour from one of our fellow exchangers who is living in Puebla. We ended our day at what must be the smallest volcano in the world. Mexico specializes in odd things. When I studied in Guadalajara during my undergrad, I was privileged to see the smallest mummy in the world in Guanajuato. I have now also seen the smallest volcano. An impromptu carnaval celebration erupted in the street by the volcancito. Mexico is not so hot with time. Apparently, even something like carnaval can be celebrated, well, really late. An extremely friendly woman with a series of biblical names - Maria Magdalena Guadalupe de Jesus y Moises - or something like that, started chatting us up. Things got a little awkward when she mentioned that Haiti got hit by the hurricane because they are voodoo devil worshipers. I really wanted to ask her which biblical sin Mexico committed in the eighties in order to merit their devastating earthquake, but just kind of said mucho gusto and wandered away.

As we sat on top of the smallest volcano in the world, I heard the chirp of my crap ass amigo phone. "Hey..." my sister said "have you gotten any weird emails this weekend?" she asked. "Huh? I'm in Puebla, sitting on a really small volcano. What's up?" I answered. "Some consular workers were murdered in Juarez" she told me, "They are evacuating the families of the embassy staff in a bunch of border cities, including Tijuana". No matter where I go, TJ just can't keep it's paws off me. I could see where she was going with this. Was I going to get sent home?

We picked up a paper and saw some pretty grisly stuff splashed all over the front pages of all of them. "OBAMA INDIGNA" one screamed. "71 MUERTOS EN UN FIN DE SEMANA". Apparently, Mexico went crazy again this weekend. We hopped on Diego, our Volaris plane, and headed back to the border. Soldiers screened our luggage to see what we were bringing north. I actually don't think they were looking for fruit. We passed the federales and drove along side the border wall as we pulled out of the Tijuana airport and through the maquiladoras that line Otay.

I was tired this morning. I trotted into school at my regular hour, 1:15 in the afternoon. The streets were mysteriously devoid of walking students and there wasn't a line at the gate to get in. Profe Rafa was already teaching in his classroom. What the hell was he up to starting class fifteen minutes early? How did he get the kids in there? Few teachers were in our workroom. Finally, I asked...¿Qué hora es? "Two fifteen" one of them answered. What....? "Come with me" one of the teachers requested. "I'll go with you to the office to explain that you didn't know the hour changed". "It changed in the United States" the secretary told me. Yeah, but I live in Mexico. I don't have some heat seeking radar that just knows what happens in the U.S. "Don't you watch TV?" she asked. "No, yes" I stammered, "I wasn't in Tijuana this weekend. I was in Puebla. The time didn't change there!" "Ohh," she said. "The rest of Mexico didn't change. Baja California has decided for the first time to just change with the U.S. Having different time from San Diego really messed up all the people that cross to work". I felt pretty crafty. Down right clever.

It didn't really matter anyway, they went ahead and canceled a lot of the classes. One class was canceled for Día de la familia. Each group of students had to bring in food items and one lucky member of the group got to take the whole basket home. The students screamed and clapped while each winner walked up to collect a basket full of toilet paper, Corn Flakes, pasta packets and canned tomatoes. Kids in the U.S. probably wouldn't have even picked up the basket if they won. I found it weirdly touching when these kids smiled and grabbed their baskets with a look that said "Thanks. My family could really use this shit. I'm taking it".

I never got that email.