This is the minisuper by my house. Every house has its minisuper. The minisuper is an important part of Mexican life everywhere I’ve been in this country. I don’t fully know if you are supposed to have minisuper loyalty, but I kinda do. You get water, snacks, SIM cards, some fresh produce, a roll of toilet paper, a single bandaid, a bolillo, and whatever other random offerings might have come their way this week. The concept of sundries comes to mind. It’s the most local level of 7-11 imaginable. This particular one is where you can get 4 Coronas and 7 limes for $3. This is the minisupers’ pet parrot who hangs out on the eggs. It also regularly features a very chill cocker spaniel and a small poodle mix of some sort who may have doggy-cidal tendencies. Leo quakes.
My parents’ trip has sadly been delayed. But the weather looks dicey this week in Oregon, so I may wind up working anyways, although it also means they are stuck in that. The delay did prompt me to buy tickets to go to Laguna Bacalar in the Yucatan, so plus side?
Leo is back in school/doggie day care and loving life and coming home just destroyed. He still smells slightly like lavendar though. And I’m experiencing one of the woes of living in Latin America which is that you must exercise diligence in buying toilet paper to ensure a scent free experience. So I also smell like lavendar.
I’m learning to order carnitas tacos, which is not remotely straightforward. In US, for the most, carnitas seems to have translated to shredded pork. Not so in Mexico. Carnitas are stewed in a cazo, which is a very large pot, cauldron? paella pan? Regardless, it’s wide, at least 2 feet in diameter and probably close to a foot in depth. The one shown below is at my favorite carnitas place so far, conveniently located on the walk to Leo’s school, their cazo is a solid 3 feet round. This sits on a stand alone gas burner and simmers. Stands that do carnitas only do carnitas. From what I can tell, you chop up an entire pig and it all goes in. Your taco is ordered by what part of the pig you’d like which is fished out of the vat and then chopped on a wood block and scooped into a tortilla. Then either “todo” meaning you’d like cilantro & onion on top (you would) or no. Last, but definitely not least, you squirt some lime on your taco and select from a wide array of salsas & escabeches that will most definitely be unlabeled. Not only does what is available vary place to place, but menus are not remotely mandatory. This is a solid primer, although most places I’ve been refer to “a bit of everything” as a surtido.
Dear lord when will I stop crying every day. I hate this routine. Wake up, cry for half an hour, go to bed cry for half an hour. I can get through most of the day now. So I guess I just have to take progress where it happens. When did I become not fun to play with for you? We used to have so much play, you used to get such a kick out out of making me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe. It occurs to me that at some point you really stopped being willing to go out on a limb with me and right now that feels like the beginning of the end. Granted, I am stumbling and rambling trying to make sense or craft some narrative out of this. Sometime around when you shut me out. When you started working on you and told me that you couldn’t share it with me. Why did I let you? Why didn’t I say “look, you don’t have to tell me everything, but actually this impacts me too. And this is a big change for you and probably a scary one and when you need to lean on me, it’s gonna help if I have some idea what’s going on”? Why didn’t I walk when you refused to sometimes do a shorter run or adapt your path so I could cut out early? Why didn’t I walk when you made feel like something was wrong with me for asking if we were ok (lol in hindsight this one really has some bite)? Why am I still crying? I don’t know if all this had more to do with you not being honest with yourself or you trying to get me to leave, but the last few years I’ve felt so unable to trust myself, so invalidated. And the thing is I am actually a very capable human. I can navigate the world successfully. I have strong connections, vulnerabilities, passions, and a sense of responsibility in this world and responding to those does not make me wrong or weak or boundaryless, it makes me me. Why did you always have to decide I was in some way wrong, why was different not enough? For now, reunderstanding myself means believing myself and that has meant not believing you. Maybe healing will mean having space for your truth too. And now I’m back to why the hell am I still crying?
I’m trying to embrace it, this freedom. I’m trying not to fall into habit. There’s a part of me that just wants to rebuild rapidly. Just buy a house in Portland, plant a garden, have friends for dinner, homemade raviolis in the freezer, a giant shelf for everything I’ve canned and bookshelves sagging under the weight of their prowess. Make the trappings. But I’m trying really hard to resist, to allow for and to create space for whatever it is I want now. And frankly, it’s uncomfortable and requires patience in that space of discomfort. I’ve been in this one version of my life for a long time and something within me strongly feels that I need to remain open to what my life could look like now and not box myself into the things I’ve done before. Perhaps a bit dramatically, images of Plato’s cave allegory are firmly fixed in my mind. And yet, I cannot stop myself from stalking Redfin.
Dramatically shifting gears, Leo and I went on our 2nd walk with the Basic Hikes group, this one (unlike Mt Ajusco) truly a basic in Chapultepec section III. This a newer section of Chapultepec which predominantly features Panteon Civil de Dolores, a large cemetary which remains on my to do list and an abandoned water park that has been converted into a skate park and is otherwise a comparatively undeveloped section of the park. We encountered few other people outside the skate park and virtually all of them were on mountain bikes. It feels a bit eerie and abandoned, but the path was reasonably well maintained. It definitely lacks the elegance of Sections 1 and 2 which have wide pathways, sculpture, stately trees and appealing picnic spots. This is a bit more scrubby. But I am judging in the middle of the dry, it’d be interesting to go back in October and see how the rains altered the landscape.
It was my first time in this area and I may have underestimated it’s distance based on my jaunts to sections 1 and 2 before. Mexico City has a very different relationship with dogs than the US. and the understanding is so wildly different that I always fail to grasp it. So, dogs are allowed in restaurants, even really nice restaurants and not just outside. The dog can go into the grocery store. In fact, the dog can go most places, regardless of whether there is a No Dogs sign on the door. I’ve had people urge me and Leo to come into the Mexican equivalent of a china shop and I’m like ‘you do not want this’ and beat a quick retreat. However, the dog cannot go on public transit and the dog cannot go to various parks, including section 1 of Chapultepec, annoyingly, as it’s by far the closest section to me. There is an Uber pet option, but it requires you to schedule in advance and some of them require you to put your pet in a crate (not conducive to going on a hike). However, I’ve sneakily begun combating this potential by having a throw and making a big show of protecting their car. And honestly, most of them don’t care and actually adore Leo who is really into getting into cars and therefore just perky eared and adorable and wanting to give all the love to the Uber driver. Long story short, we successfully Ubered to the start point. But then we walked back.
I love my urban walk abouts, this random church, walking mid air between two massive highways, the sites, sounds & smells you would otherwise miss by being too intentional in your destinations. This was a long, hot walk. All and all, Leo & I clocked about 13 miles yesterday and treated me to a mezcalita and the tuna carnitas tacos featured below (not stellar, but alas, better than no tacos).
I recently found Juan Cirerol who I can only describe as some kinda Mexican cross of Johnny Cash & Bob Dylan. Thinking I might bounce down to Oaxaca for my birthday, he’s playing there the 15th. Music can be hard for me in Spanish, words are often said in a slightly different way to match rhythm, metaphors abound, slang is heavy and, like poetry, words are often used in atypical ways. Particuarly true of the indie/punk scene that I tend to prefer. Pop is much easier and an amazing learning tool for both direct & indirect object pronouns. All that to say, I cannot fully tell if he’s a misogynist or candidly sharing his mental health issues. But I like the sound.
Year One Project 
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