Mysteries of the Mexican Supermarket

Behold!

Green oranges!

Low sodium salt!

 Oolong tea marked as 'blue tea'!

Where am I?!?!?

A Word About Refugees

I've been seeing a lot of uninformed hysteria (as opposed to well-informed hysteria) flying around the social media lately concerning the Syrian refugee program. Most of these 'concerns' boil down to 'OMG MUSLIMS!', but at heart it's a more basic paranoia of the Different.
 
When people hear that X number of Syrian refugees will be offered asylum, the image in their heads is a huge crowd of dirty, disheveled, swarthy-looking people muttering in some unknowable guttural language standing behind a gate. A uniformed guard opens the door, and they all come pouring in.

Does anybody realize what it takes to get into this country?

Everyone is fingerprinted, photographed, their name and vital data is run through a series of databases and transmitted to numerous federal agencies. They are questioned, often at length, and their education, background, and work history is scrutinized.

And THAT is just for a tourist visa. The refugee application process is slow, exhaustive, and exacting.

Is it CONCEIVABLE that one of the Syrian refugees could do some bad things? Who knows? It's possible that one of the children who got the polio vaccine could grow up to be the next Hitler. It's a nonsensical line of reasoning.

Why Join the Foreign Service? Part II

“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.”

– Aldous Huxley

Mucha Lucha

 I attended my first Mexican wrestling or lucha libre fight, complete with scantily-clad sign-holders, questionably in-shape competitors and brightly-colored wrestling masks. 

Obviously this is much less a genuine competition of wrestling skill than an exhibition. People root for their favorite 'characters' and there are clearly defined good guys and bad guys.

Far more spirited than the lucha libre was the lucha de clases.  We in the 'rich section' were treated to a constant battle of taunts and insults to and from those in the 'cheap seats' (though, of course, the difference in price could not have been more than $1 or $2 American). The mildest was probably "Pobres, pobres! Tu madre es mi criada (Hey, poor people! Your mother is my maid)!" The irony, of course is that none of Mexico's genuine burguesia would be caught dead at a lucha libre fight. The antagonisms seemed to be entirely posturing.  

Bread of the Dead

To the people of New York, Paris, or London, "death" is a word that is never pronounced because it burns the lips. The Mexican, however, frequents it, jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it; it is one of his favorite toys and most steadfast love. Of course, in his attitude perhaps there is as much fear as there is in one of the others; at least he does not hide it; he confronts it face to face with patience, disdain, or irony.

Octavio Paz, 'The Labyrinth of Solitude

This is pan de muerto (literally, dead man's bread):

Last weekend was El Dia de los Muertos here in Guadalajara.  For the most part, this is a solemn occasion dedicated to the memory of those we have lost. Families visit the cemetery and bring small altars to the departed, on which they place photos of the deceased along with treats they had enjoyed in life (cookies, tequila, etc.).

That side of Dia de los Muertos is not visible to outsiders. What we do see is a carnival-like celebration somewhat reminiscent of Halloween, with a much stronger emphasis on the 'death' aspect rather than playing dress-up. Kids paint their faces to look like skeletons and eat sugar skulls called calabritas:

All in all, a good time.