When you type the words, ‘become a local’ into Google the first page is full of adverts about how you could make a difference if you became a local councillor and then there’s one very interesting link to a page called, ‘Rent a Local Friend’. Dubious.
Why did I ever have this aim? What did I imagine when I wrote it? Honestly, I saw a vision of a flat in the Northern Quarter, Manchester, weekly trips (that all social occasions would be built around) to a pub quiz where the bar tender would eventually know my drink order (quite easy when you’re only ever on softs!). I could see myself strolling to the Arndale markets, maybe, and buying my veg in an environmentally friendly shopping bag (which I actually remembered every time) and chatting happily to the same man as he bagged it all up. I guess, I had a thirst for knowing the secrets of the city, for feeling comfortable in it, for finding tiny cafes and bars in side streets, having the luxury to indulge my whims of giving myself time to spend in record shops and book shops that I usually rushed passed. I wanted to know local bands, as I could walk home and still be in bed by half 11.
I just wanted to wander around Manchester when it wasn’t peak times and do it slowly until I knew it, could map it like my own history and then begin to understand it and own it in some way. Make it home. I love that city, I just still feel lost in it. I had a really strong conviction that by 30 you should really fit in somewhere. Confidently,
Maybe the Google results and I have something in common. Those adverts are about feeling like you belong.
Now, I live in Tlalpan, Mexico City (just; it got swallowed by the sprawl but used to be a city of its own). I didn’t think this place would be home or somewhere I wanted to be a local, I thought it would be an experience/adventure. However, I’m starting to feel like a local.
My guide to knowing if you’re a local in Mexico City:
You can sleep through an entire night and not wake up with your heart pounding because of fireworks that are let off at random 365 days a year, 24 hours a day. (Except Bonfire Night!)
You can continue teaching without seriously considering the best way to protect your children from the murderous gunman that has opened fire on the grounds; as you now understand those loud bangs are fireworks being thrown in the car park.
You don’t bother looking up to see if you can catch a shower of sparks from fireworks as you know that the firework of choice in Mexico is a banger. (Unless it’s Independence Day or something really special, as if they are frightened you will get bored of the beautiful colours but can never tire of the noise)
When you walk past a car sales place you can expect to see all the staff on the forecourt clapping, cheering and high intensity whistling if anyone has bought a car, even a just a little Golf. This ruckus continues until the car is safely on the main road and all the staff will wave emphatically, overjoyed for you. I still smile when I think of how much this surprised me the first time I was stomping pavement to the supermarket.
There are armed security guards and policemen in unexpected places, like the bakery; you no longer discuss this at length when you spot one or change your course to be as far away from the barrel of their gun as possible.
You know to take directions with a pinch of salt as Mexicans like to ‘help’ even if they have no idea what you are saying to them and will confidently send you in entirely the wrong direction just to be ‘polite’.
You learn to appreciate that eating a ten course meal, with each course wrapped in brittle, crinkling paper, in the cinema is totally normal, as is: answering your phone, talking loudly, laughing every 7 minutes religiously even if you are watching a very tense psychological thriller, that the writer wasn’t including a single joke in, is mandatory and that the consistent loud noise of ‘affectionate’ slaps of a boyfriend on a girlfriend’s arm is all to be taken as part of the atmosphere and not reason to lose your temper and shout.
You never get into a taxi and expect the driver to know where you live, even if he says he does. If you take the driver at face value you will not get annoyed that he takes you to entirely the wrong part of the city, is unapologetic, will leave the meter running while you try to find your home on Google Maps and the fare will have cost you double what you expected.
When queuing in an ice-cream parlour you no longer spend ages waiting for your turn only to be looked at blankly because you haven’t paid, before purchase, at a till (concealed behind bars) in the most hidden away corner of the room.
When you have violent diarrhoea at least once every 6 days you no longer fear it or question where or what you’ve eaten.
You don’t bother going through the long convoluted process of seeing a doctor when you get another parasite because Superama stocks a drug that kills everything inside you within 24 hours and you don’t need a prescription to buy it.
When getting the Metrobus you know that you have 5 seconds to get on or off and the doors will slam into you if you dare to take longer than that, even if you are very old or disabled. You also never expect the driver to leave the doors open a moment longer if you are running for the bus even if he is stuck behind 2 other buses and is going to be at the station for another 30 seconds.
You have swapped fizzy drinks for Limonada Natural and never expect it to be made of lemons as limes are called Limons here.
It becomes clear to you that the only sensible way to transport a baby if you are using the Metrobus is in your arms, with a fleece blanket thrown over them; you start to think that prams are totally overrated and admire the upper body strength these parents have and the close connection they have with their children.
When you have a token black friend and a token blonde friend that you are walking with on the streets, you are totally unperturbed by all the stares that are directed your way and no longer miss Britain for the ability to be anonymous, you embrace the fact that this sight is a rarity and let people stare (and sometimes ask to touch their hair)
You make sure you carry change to give to the person who bags your shopping in the supermarket, even if you could have put your loaf of bread and parasite killing drugs in a bag yourself because otherwise you know they don’t get paid. You no longer feel quite overwhelmed about how even the poorest people tip the bagging staff as you know that Mexicans have big hearts.
If you buy something expensive in a fancy department store you don’t get flustered by 5 members of staff crowding the till to count your money, give you a receipt and confirm everything at least 4 times; you accept that they think you are part of the mafiosa as nobody else carries large sums of cash. (We have no choice as we don’t have bank account so cash our wages in full)
You fall hopelessly in love with the way Mexicans use diminutives affectionately and start interspersing them in your own Spanglish conversations with abandon. (So, fat here is, “gordo” but they also use, “gordito”, masculine and, “gordita”, feminine, for what I can only translate as little fattie boy/girl. It’s used affectionately and can also apply to stuff like, “chica” becoming, “chicatita”)
When walking in your neighbourhood you give up on the pavements and stick to the side of the roads as you know that the pavements are death-traps: every 5 meters will involve a sudden step down, or up, of at least 12 inches, tree roots will have brought up entire sections, huge lamp post will be put directly in the middle of the pavement meaning you need to turn sidewards to pass them, and, if you’re lucky, there will sometimes be wires freely hanging from electricity poles.
You try to wander into Tlalpan Centro on Friday evening just to see the couples dancing in the square and you know that if you sit at one of the chairs assembled around the band-stand you will be invited to join in. You quietly admire the grace of the elderly woman that always bring her fan and snaps it out in perfect timing.
The main square in Tlalpan where bands and dancers gather.
Maybe you can be a local anywhere, as long as your heart and mind are open? Everyone feels like an outsider sometimes! As Frida Kahlo once said, “I paint my own reality” and right now, I’m content with mine. I feel like a local here.
diaryofadisillusionedteacher 