A Mexican Sefaradi Wedding

Jessica and Jaime got married on Saturday night in the Synagogue of the Comunidad Sefaradi up in the Inter-Lomas area of Mexico City, way up high in the north-western parts of Mexico City. We didn't notice our ascent so much in the car going there, as we were getting to know Cousin Celia, in her 80's, who was born in Poland, and trying to find out what we could of the family. We learned of deceased uncles in Chicago and Miami, but not much more about the relationship between my grandmother's family and the Mexican branch of the Kutno Kirshbaums. We really noticed the wonderful panorama of city lights from the windows on two sides of the reception room while we were dancing, and when we were driving back, we seemed to descend at least 1,000 feet in the first 15 minutes of the drive. Mexico City is in a basin, a former lake bed on a high plateau: I don't really know at what point in the City they measure its elevation of around 7,350 feet (which sounds more impressive than the height in metres), but we were certainly up high on Saturday night, as we had also been at a friend's lunch on the southern outskirts of the City that afternoon, from where the taxi ride back to Coyoacán had also been downhill all the way. Australia is so old geologically speaking, and so worn down over the ages, that we have very few mountains: by contrast, the constant rise and fall of the landscape here always delights me.

(An aside as I write - I have the University FM station on in the background. They have been playing a selection of Jewish liturgical music and Yiddish folk songs, and they have just started playing a very spirited version of Chad Gadya! I must find out whether this is a weekly theme or a one-off.)

This Sefaradi centre is very new, also very large with lots of marble, and plaques everywhere recognizing the contributors of every identifiable object. When we arrived, it was announced that the Chuppah, which we had been told would be at 10, would be at 10.30, well after Shabbat. We all mingled, and I munched on some of what my mother used to call Paris almonds, roasted almonds in a hard candy shell - a big basket of these was available next to the tray of beige suede Kippot, and we later encountered more on the table in little metal pill boxes with a see through window in the lid, tied up with a gauze ribbon and thanking us for attending the wedding - the local bomboniere, I guess. We were introduced to various friends and family, including Sammy, the son, and Lillian, the daughter, of Elias and Silvia, their spouses and some of their children (one was a little bridesmaid). As is standard in Mexico, lots of people were smoking. I realised at this point that I had left my camera at home - of all times! ¡Estupida! I tried taking a few pics with Barry's phone during the most exciting parts of the wedding, but everyone was moving too fast to capture without blurring. And anyway, on the Amigo phone service we have here, you can't email photos so I can't see how to get them onto the computer, even if they were any good.

Then, close to 11PM, we were ushered into the shule; men and women were seated separately. The synagogue itself is on one level, with a space for women at the back behind a low divider. All beautifully carved marble, very much in what I would have thought of as Islamic style (Barry said it looked like the Lebanese parliament!), the decoration featuring flowers and plants, no animals or people. There is a stained glass domed ceiling, and some more stained glass windows behind the Ark, and elaborate etched glazing in all the other windows. The Chuppah (wedding canopy) was suspended from a structure which presumably is the Bimah - it looked a bit like a large and ornate Victorian gazebo in brass, and was decorated for the occasion with ferns and flowers. The bride was preceded down a specially constructed carpeted elevated central aisle by all the members of both bride and groom's close family, with special music for each group, provided by a string quartet and songs from a cantor. The songs were mostly in Hebrew, including for the parents and most elderly relatives of the bride "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. Not a dry eye in the house. Siblings were greeted, then the parents. Then came a little page boy all dolled up, bearing the rings on an ornate cushion, flower girls in white with garlands in their hair and frilly socks, strewing pink and white rose petals, then the groom and finally the lovely bride to Mendelssohn's wedding march.

Here are some similarities and differences I noted from the Jewish weddings I have attended in Melbourne: there seemed to be a very large crowd under the Chuppah; there was no bride walking around the groom in circles; several different rabbis and/or cantors chanted different blessings and parts of the ceremony and a rather more senior and considerably less tuneful rabbi read the Ketubah (wedding contract, in Aramaic) and most of the 7 blessings; ; the vow part with the rings was there but did not seem invested with any particular solemnity; the breaking of the glass is something never omitted at a Jewish wedding, as were the Mazaltovs from the crowd; there was no speech I could detect from any of the rabbis about entering a Jewish marriage and establishing a Jewish home; and the little kids got fidgety and started a minor re-distribution contest along the aisle with the rose petals.

The bride wore an elegant white strapless dress with a boned bodice and a long train, all edged with diamante, with an organza cover up for the ceremony. There was a nifty button arrangement on the back of the skirt so she could tie up her train for the reception: at one stage this may have come adrift as on one trip to the loo I observed half a dozen women fussing over her and one busily sewing the button or its loop back onto the dress. The groom wore a morning suit with striped vest and tie.

After the ceremony we again met up with Nathan and Eugenia - she is still very beautiful. When we last met none of us had any children, and now we have kids from 27 down to around 20. Poor Nathan asked for our sympathy - his wife and 2 daughters are all psychologists, what chance does a man have in such a household? We did a bit more mingling then gravitated towards the multi-purpose room where this small (by Mexican standards) wedding reception for about 250 people was to be held. Our names were there on the table guide - "Barbara y Barry - Australia -Table 12". We were seated with Nathan and Eugenia, Cousin Celia, Cousin by marriage Pepe and his compañera Gloria, and Betty (Nathan's sister-in-law, his brother being away in Israel making arrangements for another wedding a few weeks away). Betty and her family lived in Israel on Kibbutz Ein Gev for 17 years, and they have been back in Mexico for about as long. She is taking a break as a Montessori kindergarten teacher after many years teaching Hebrew to children of all ages, and still takes some private classes, and we conversed in a mixture of English, Hebrew and Spanish. When I search for a Hebrew word these days, it is more likely to come out as Spanish - the newer language learning seems to displace the older, somehow. However, she was most accommodating. Everyone wonders what I do all day - these days, mostly blog and read The Age and Crikey on-line it seems, but I don't think they can imagine a life with no car and no servants, where going for long walks in the neighbourhood, shopping and cooking take up lots of time.

A starter salad of lettuce and herbs, some nuts, and some fried tortilla strips in a crispy tortilla basket was on the table at each place setting, with a couple of different dressings, at least one of which was Asian-flavoured with a lot of sesame oil. We didn't know whether to wait for a rabbi and a hamotzi to begin, but none was forthcoming and eventually we tucked in like everyone else while the bride and groom ("los novios") and close family were presumably signing things and having some photos taken.. Then the band played a signature tune for each group of rellies to enter the hall to applause, with the novios entering last, greeting all the others, and then beginning their bridal waltz. After that the band took a break and dinner was served, accompanied by recorded music from the band's sound system.

We had speculated in advance about whether wine would be available on the table. So we were not entirely surprised to find there was no wine on offer at all. Tequila, yes: spirits and mixed drinks, yes, but we couldn't order wine and didn't notice anyone drinking beer, so we knew we certainly were not in Australia.

Waiters brought around a selection of small rolls, including some utterly delicious little onion Bialys, and after clearing away the starter produced a soup served en croute: a really good puff pastry lid covered a rich sopa de cilantro (coriander soup). Due to kashrut concerns it couldn't have been thickened with cream, but had a lovely mouth texture as well as flavour. It seemed to have some pistachios in it, but maybe they were some kind of bean? As well as being very tasty, with the pastry lid the soup stayed hot and didn't spill: what a good idea for serving soup to 250 people. The main course was a lightly breaded chicken breast served in some sauce, possibly a Mexican interpretation of teriyaki, which was rather too sweet for my taste: there were stir-fry style julienned vegetables in a sharpish sweet and sour sauce, which were very good, and the accompanying rice also had nuts in it, and maybe sesame seeds. We are used to basmati or jasmine rice, so plain Mexican rice seems to need a little something added for flavour and aroma.

There was an enormous range of small (and not-so-small) pastries laid out on a huge table for dessert. There were familiar Middle Eastern types, including baklava and other filo-based pastries, fruit tarts, creme patissiere-filled pastries, some on biscuit bases, more Acland Street style ones, some mysterious orange jelly things - I had one piece of chocolate-dipped Marzipan but had no room nor inclination for the anything else, though Barry kept his end up. Not a piece of fresh fruit to be seen, though Betty and Eugenia asked for some and very much later received a personal plate of wonderfully displayed papaya, tuna (the fruit of the cactus, not the fish, which is atun in Spanish) and watermelon. I wish I'd thought of that!

Then the dancing began in earnest, with Israeli circle dances and the novios being lifted up on chairs jointly and severally. The band who played and sang these songs were enormously versatile and seemed completely indefatigable. There looked to be about 8 musicians when I tried to count while dancing. There were 2 on keyboards, one on conventional drum kit and one on a set of bongos and more ethnic drums, 2 guitarists, 2 trumpet players, someone on a mixing console and at least one other person involved with props and other activities, plus 3 female and 2 male singers. The women were young and slim, and never stopped dancing for a second, waving their arms about in unison (or whichever arm was not occupied with a mike) and jiggling about. Their moves were echoed by the younger of the male singers, a very handsome youth who looked more like a Cuban than a Mexican, and to a lesser extent by the older guy who was the lead singer usually and as the evening progressed was the one getting down and dirty with the guests, enticing people up on stage to sing and dance.

After quite a long set, well over half an hour without any breaks, first the girls, one by one, and then the boys, disappeared from the stage and shortly after reappeared, this time dressed in Military camouflage fatigues - well, the girls were in camouflage miniskirts, drab green t-shirts, fishnet tights and the same knee high black platform boots they had been wearing with their black hipster pants and off-one-shoulder black spangly tops. I am not familiar enough with Mexican music to have any idea what the significance of this costume was for the next set, but the dancing continued up on stage and on the floor for at least another hour. While we took a break for a drink and a bit of a sit down, the mood changed again and they handed out headbands with foam tequila bottles or tropical fruit, and straw hats with a turned up brim, obviously from some tropical region of Mexico, and another long set proceeded with music we again failed to recognise but which delighted the crowd.

At some stage the band changed back into their black gear and continued on. During the course of the morning, as it was about 3 AM by now, the band changed styles and clothes - for example, beige vests and flares with large Afro wigs for a disco segment, and /or handed out new props to the dancers. The most colourful was a patriotic Mexican set, where many of the dancers, including los novios, went outside and came back clad in Mexican regional costumes on top of their formalwear, carrying Mexican and other national flags - we recognized at least Argentina, Chile, Cuba, the US and Israel - and proceeded to do lots of folk dances as well as just parading about in their finery to the marching music. For another turn, the groom came on in a camel suit: he had the front of a camel attached to himself and was dressed in a lilac lamé djelabah and kefiyeh, and many other males were similarly attired, and yashmak and kefiyeh-type headresses were handed out to the dancers, while the band played Middle Eastern music.


There was another regional Mexican set with a kerchief for the men and lace headdresses for the women. The bride led the crowd in singing and dancing a whole set from Grease (I love that it is translated as Vaselina here!). Many of the older women joined the lead singer in Karaoke versions of famous Mexican Ballads, some up on stage and others from their tables. There was a lot of line dancing Mexican style, where a different type of sombrero, more befitting a cowboy than a Mexican peasant, was handed out. There was a set of dances where they handed out lucha libre masks: at least we were on the floor for this, and the attached photo shows me modelling the mask Barry had. There was a long Elvis set, with the inevitable sequence of Elvis impersonators taking turns in the costumes and wigs. They provided boiler suits/ tracksuits (I fancy in the dark blue and yellow of the Pumas, the top football team in Mexico City ) for another set. Everyone seemed to know all the songs and dances - where oh where is this common culture at home?

It was the bride's 35th birthday so there was a cake to be cut and the crowd sang Las Mañanitas, which is what they sing in Spanish speaking countries instead of Happy Birthday.
We had a 60's set (knowing more about this music, I didn't think this was really the band's metier, but they were enjoying themselves - and still dancing whether up on stage or on the floor leading the crowd in various dances. They even did the Zorba dance! Melbourne's Greek community has taught us much better than the Mexicans know how to do this properly, but nobody cared. There was also a special dance for the mother of the bride upon marrying off her last daughter - no idea if this is a Mexican or a Sefaradi custom.

There was an elaborate ceremony around tossing the bridal bouquet - various sub-bouquets were presented to the many significant women in Jessica's life who were present. After these had been presented with love and kisses, the single women were lined up and the actual bouquet was thrown. Something similar happened for single men, too, but I am not sure what it was as I went to the loo. At another stage, a carpeted platform was held up and all kinds of significant people were encouraged to do a little solo dance to some very rhythmic music, to applause from all. The tireless lead singer did all the rounding up and announcing of who was next, and MC'd the whole performance. I really liked the way so many family and friends were encouraged to participate in the shenanigans; I really felt it was very inclusive and not so much about the bride and groom individually but about them in the context of their family and friends. It seemed that a lot of thought had gone into ensuring everyone really enjoyed themselves and participated.

I have no doubt forgotten some of the craziness that prevailed as everybody danced the night away, but around 5 am, a group of Mariachis appeared (it seemed to be some of the musos in Mariachi costumes) to welcome the dawn, and the long-suffering waiters served whoever was still there a Mexican breakfast of chilaquiles (sort of corn chips in a green chile salsa), huevos a la mexicana (eggs scrambled with chiles and tomatoes) and frijoles (refried beans), served with pan dulce (sweet rolls or small pastries) and a glass of juice. The novios sat at their own table for breakfast. One last duty before we left with Elias and Silvia (who took a flower arrangement home - this at least was familiar) was to tip the waiter who had kept Barry in tequila all night!

There were no speeches at all, it was just a great party that will not soon be forgotten. I have no reference points, so don't know how typical this was of a Mexican wedding or a Sefaradi wedding, but it was most enjoyable and very different to be privileged to experience the entire event.

The Family and a getting kitted up for a Family Wedding

We had looked up some Mexican family in 1976, during my first ever visit to Mexico. I recall Barry calling them from a pay phone in a noisy city street while I loudly prompted him with the names of my grandparents , parents, uncles and aunts. They were very welcoming and invited us to a dinner where a lot of people of several generations were speaking Spanish (with Yiddish as an alternative, which I understand even less). I had completed most of my first ever 3-week intensive course at La Trobe about 4 months earlier, and after trying my best to follow conversations for the first two hours, overloaded on Spanish and tuned out completely. On one subsequent visit we had linked up again, meeting a couple maybe 10-15 years younger than us (Nathan was from the Mexican family, his Brazilian wife Eugenia, whom he had met in Israel, was extremely beautiful), and once maybe 15 years ago, Barry had spent a Passover Seder with the family.

On this trip I was determined to find them again, so I twisted Bary's arm to call and re-establish contact. He tried to insist I make the call, but speaking on the phone in a language you are not very proficient with is particularly hard if you don't know the people you're speaking to. In fact I did not remember Elias, my 75 year-old cousin, and his wife Silvia, at all. My previous contact had been with Cecilia (the cousin who had invited us over: she was Elias's sister, and has since died) and Pepe, Nathan's parents. It seems that while the family was still in Poland, my mother's mother, who had migrated from Kutno to London before my mother was born, had sent food parcels, clothes and medicine which are credited with having saved the life of one of the cousins who was very unwell as an infant. My Booba's name, Balcia Kirshbaum, opened all doors, no matter how long ago this happened (probably in the 1920's) nor how remote the family relationship is. Certainly good deeds are rewarded down through the generations!

Last week Elias and Silvia invited us over for supper on Saturday night, putting on a magnificent homesickness-inducing spread including bagels, smoked salmon, and various types of herring as well as more common Mexican fare and lots of fresh fruit. We looked at some old photos but recognized no-one except the cousins when younger - photos taken in the 1950's at weddings or Bar Mitzvahs in Mexico look just like the ones in our family albums at home. We got no closer than identifying that my Booba was Elias's mother's aunt. Therefore we figured that my great grandmother and his grandmother were sisters. We have no family tree and don't quite know how to go about constructing one given that so few of the family survived. The descendants of the ones who had left Europe before the Holocaust typically were not that interested at the time and now we would like to know, we have only very sketchy information.

The next day, a Sunday, while Silvia was busy making a cake for the civil wedding ceremony of another similarly distant cousin, Elias took us on a tour of the Centro Deportivo Israelita, an enormous sporting and social complex in the north of the city, which we have heard about for years but had never visited. It is truly enormous - very prescient families in the community bought the land in the mid 1940s and the Centre was opened in 1955. It includes football and softball fields, tennis courts, an athletics track, an outdoor 50 meter pool complex, and indoor 25 meter pool, several gyms (male and female), indoor football and basketball courts. I even saw people fencing in one activity room. I checked out the enormous female changing rooms; the area was equipped with steam rooms, massage rooms, serried ranks of lockers, there was a hairdressing salon - eat your heart out Kew Rec Centre! On the social rather than sporting side, we saw many function rooms, there was a synagogue, a reception area for health checks, a large library, computer facilities, a cinema, a very large Community Hall complete with Mexican style mural depicting the history of the Jewish people (see my attempt to post a slide show of the shots I took of the mural), a restaurant, a coffee and fast food area with tables and chairs to meet while waiting for family members to finish their activities, a gift shop...



It offers a huge range of activities, including the lap swimming and Pilates classes that I indulge in at home, but it is very far from Coyoacán where we live, and awkward to get to by public transport from here. Given that once I enrol in my Spanish course in October I will be able to use the UNAM pool (a simple pesero or trolley bus trip of 20 minutes max), and it is less than 2 weeks till I head off for Canada and the US for 3 weeks, it didn't seem worth taking out the very expensive temporary membership option. Elias kept meeting friends and introducing us - he has been a member forever and it clearly is a tight-knit community. There are about 50,000 Jews in Mexico City, fewer than in Melbourne, but the infrastructure far outclasses ours. The family all played sports there: their daughter was quite a keen gymnast, their son played football, and now their children along with much of the Jewish community have moved north and west into newer suburbs, closer to the Centre, and their grandchildren are now using the facilities.

We also visited another community facility, a much older 7 story building in the neighbourhood (Condesa) where Elias and Silvia live, which houses a large Orthodox Ashkenazi Synagogue, a kosher food store (where I stocked up on matza, some Israeli cous-cous and bought some Chanukah candles - as our wanderings were not yet done and it was hot, we couldn't get any perishables. This was tough, as everything smelled so wonderful - never go shopping when you are hungry!)

Most of the complex was closed because of the hour, but we managed to look at the very interesting photographic exhibition honouring Gilberto Bosques, who as a Mexican diplomat in France saved many Jews from the Nazis. The photos, especially from his time in France during WWII, including the Camp at Drancy, were really chilling. It was he who recommended Mexico sever diplomatic ties with the Nazis due to the horrors they were perpetrating. Add his name to your list of Righteous Gentiles: check out this website I just discovered for more information (cut and paste it into your browser search bar, I tried to make it a hot link but am not sure it works):

http://mexfiles.wordpress.com/2007/07/09/gilberto-bosques-the-mexican-schindler-honored/

We proceeded to a restaurant renowned for its matza ball soup: a brief digression on food follows, so if you don't share my pre-occupation with this ever-fascinating topic, skip this paragraph! The soup was good, and though the matza ball was enormous and very light, it somehow didn't taste of matza, schmaltz or home. However, the calf's liver, thinly sliced and served with onions, really hit the spot. I am not the greatest fan of Mexican food - I get a bit sick of tortilla-based dishes after my first couple of weeks here, and really miss the Asian flavours which are our staple at home. We don't have a wok here in the apartment, and I miss lemongrass and kaffir lime, though garlic , soy and chili are readily available, and I found some fresh (well, not very) ginger at a herb stall in the local market last week, and got some sweet chili sauce at the supermarket. I am determined to find some black bean sauce, which I know I found last time I was here - maybe I need to try the other supermarket a bit further away than our local. The flavours and brands of Asian sauces they seem to have in stock locally are all the sweetish varieties and a bit gluggy: sweet and sour, char sui, plum sauce etc, but I suppose I could add heaps of lemon juice to produce a less cloying effect.

When we returned to Elias's apartment to pick up the umbrella we had left there the night before and say hello to Silvia and Jenny, his mother-in-law, who lives with them, Silvia told us that another cousin Lucy (widow of my family member and mother of bride-to-be Jessica) had invited us to come to the wedding on Saturday night. It was a very generous invitation from people we have never met, and we gratefully accepted. I asked Silvia about dress: she said "coctel" and I went into a bit of a panic, as I don't travel with a little black dress, let alone any shoes suitable for dancing or fancy affairs. So on Monday I called Herzonia, my new best friend in Mexico, a mostly retired translator who lives nearby, about where to go shopping. In the past I have not been able to find shoes in my size, which is a Mexican 7 or 7 1/2 . Most stores only stock up to 6! I figured I'd be lucky to find anything, and then I'd have to get a dress or a pretty top to wear with back pants, to go with any shoes I contrived to find. She arranged to take me to a mall nearby and promised she was a patient shopping companion: I was very glad of this as I expected a difficult expedition and was not hopeful of success in my mission. I had noticed the shopping centre she took us to but had never been inside, as I don't normally shop for ordinary clothes in Mexico. I had never been inside a real mall here in a dozen trips, including several long stays. It would be untrue to say I don't shop here, and no-one would believe me anyway - but I mostly frequent markets for food and handicrafts or jewellery.

The mall itself is huge, multi-storeyed, with a parking garage underneath. We took great care to notice where we had parked for fear of being lost underground in the vastness. It has the usual large galleried spaces of North American malls, with people constantly sweeping the marble floors and generally taking care of the place. The anchor store is a Palacio de Hierro, and I have never been inside any branch of this somewhat up-market department store. It has a variety of over-priced mini boutiques of mostly foreign designers, interspersed with domestic and house brands which are a bit more affordable, and is laid out so you have to walk past lots of "buy me" temptations before you can get to where you are going. We headed for the shoes, taking in the general look of the place and what people are wearing in Mexico this season. Eventually with assistance from one of the far more prevalent staff than you'd encounter in Australia, we found just a couple of plausible styles, with only the imported brand Anne Klein coming in my size, in a rather pricey black shoe with a manageable heel which looked good on my foot. We deferred a decision and I tried on a dress which we had both noticed looked pretty good on the rack. Astounding - it fitted perfectly, suited me, was reasonably priced and seemed an appropriate choice as a "coctel". So I bought it, feeling incredibly chuffed at how easy it was. However as it was a coffee shade and made of stretchy lace, the black Anne Klein's seemed not quite right for it. So we hit the other shoe stores just on this level of the mall. We visited about 7, none of which carried my size in anything, let alone a style and colour that seemed right. Finally, we decided to return to El Palacio, and right at the entrance we hit next there was another little shoe store. Herzonia said we may as well look as it was right there - and there were a couple of styles in the window that seemed OK. What's more they had my very size in a bronze colour that would be perfect with the dress - and they were on sale! Since I have retired, my very relaxed lifestyle means I rarely go clothes shopping except for casual stuff, so the whole experience was a real buzz: when you're hot, you're hot, so I even tried to convince Herzonia to look for something while we were on a roll! Common sense prevailed however, and we left the mall and stopped for a coffee and a long chat on the way home.

My next entry will deal with the wedding itself, so watch this space!

A Gastonomic and Historic Tour of Mexico City

Back in Melbourne, Barry booked us in for a tour of the historic centre of Mexico City that he saw advertised on the Internet, hosted by a chef and an historian, formerly partners in a well-known foodie's delight restaurant in Mexico City. So we turned up in front of the Cathedral in the Zocalo at 11.30 Saturday morning, looking for a group led a man in a guayabera (a shirt favoured in the tropics here and in other parts of Central America, loose fitting and with a pin-tucked front and many pockets, in this case holding a supply of cigars) and a straw hat. This was the historian, who conducted most of the tour, starting with an orientation to the early history of Colonial Mexico, the spice trade and the growth of various ports, trade routes and Mexico City's commercial history. I missed a good deal of his spiel due to my inadequate grasp of Spanish spoken so fast, but I also caught a fair bit of it, and Barry, my very own historian of Mexico, was able to fill me in and add more information.

We set off walking through the incredibly busy streets of the historic centre: those of you who have been in Ho Chi Minh City or Hanoi would recognize the bustle and incessant commercial activity and the crowds, though I think it is even more crowded than those streets are. It's also astonishing where they allow cars to penetrate, though some areas are closed to vehicles. But here the stall holders and mobile traders don't hassle you like they do in Bali. We had been directed to look at the architecture of the buildings, the facades, the construction materials, the scale of things etc. as we made our way through the streets to the oldest jugueria (juice place) in Mexico, founded in the 50's by the same family that still runs this little hole in the wall. They had a great idea in this land of tropical fruit, and now there are juice stalls everywhere: the prices are very low, a fraction of what a Boost Juice would cost you at home. What a shame for the proprietors that they never thought about franchising! We sampled some of their finest, heard from the owner about their history, and resumed our journey.

In this part of the city, whole streets are dedicated to particular trades - we passed blocks of fabric suppliers, ironmongers, plumbing supplies, kitchen goods, stationery, jewellery supplies, jewellers - and noted buildings from different eras, 18th and 19th Century facades, ex-convents, churches in the Chiguirriguesco style (Mexican Baroque, see photo), schools and former military institutions, some covering whole blocks. There were peaceful little squares hidden inside entrances, providing a wonderful retreat from the hubbub all around. We stopped and had another little lecture in one such patio at a former college, now an archive, where older prostitutes on the beat used to take a break, welcomed and befriended by an renowned old teacher there who was renowned for never missing a day 's work and never being late. When he died at a great age, they lit candles and raised a memorial fund for him. The recent City government of Lopez Obrador provided some housing as a refuge for aged prostitutes, an unusual form of social welfare.

The nuns were transmitters of much of the cuisine now renowned as Mexican, and pioneers in the use of the new spices and food products such as maize, tomatoes, corn and chile which the Spanish sent to Spain and the rest of Europe. Our chef, in a natty but pocketless hand-made white chef's shirt, was rarely without a cigarette or a cigar from the other guy's pocket. His Spanish , fortunately for me, was slower and clearer. He told us all about this specific gastronomic history and I found him much easier to follow. Maybe it's because I am more interested in food than in history per se?

A real highlight was a visit to the worker's food market, an area decorated with murals at each entrance representing the history of food and food transport, and the social history of Mexico, focussing on worker and peasant struggles against exploitation, particularly in agriculture and food production. The food hall itself is a bit run down (I liked the Spanish word he used, decadente) - it doesn't specialize in anything, unlike flower or fish markets, but has a full range of the produce you see all over. This includes chicken , which in Mexico is always yellow. I've asked about this - they either feed them marigold petals or some artificial colouring agent. I still haven't quite got over seeing chicken heads on display along with all the other parts. Also meat and chicharron, which is huge pieces of pork crackling, probably the skin of a whole side of a pig deep fried (see photo). Personally I gag at the thought, but it is sold on the street all over Mexico, both the real stuff and an artificial compound which resembles it, broken into small pieces and served on a plastic plate with chilli sauce, and it is very popular here. Mounds of fruit and veg, all kinds of dried beans and pulses, nuts and spices including many variants on mole, dried and powdered or in paste form.

The market is part of a complex , El Centro Cultural y Mercado Abelardo L. Rodriguez, including a theatre (where a ballet class was in progress at a barre on stage. It is a wonderful space with lovely, if in need of renovation, decorations, and is fitted with wooden seats with a lot more leg room than we had at the opera), a library and some government offices. The toilets were considerably less impressive. On the vaulted walls and spaces of the courtyard of the building being used for offices there is an extensive mural by Pablo O'Higgins, one of the famous political muralists, depicting the development of Mexico from pre-Columbian times through the Spanish Conquest (see photo of part of the ceiling mural). ¡Muy impresionante!

Then we set off again through the streets and past the stalls. I am very tempted to buy a sieve or two - they still make metal sieves here in every conceivable shape and size, which might serve to replace ancient ones I inherited from my mother which by now have mostly rusted or otherwise deteriorated. I keep melting the supports off the plastic replacements I have acquired. But I didn't have time to stop and examine the stock in detail, though the chef did pause to buy a little bag of five tiny donuts: I was shocked at this weakness for junk food, but I think he might have been too, as he only ate one and a half and threw the rest away!

Around 3 we arrived at the small food shop specialising in produce from Oaxaca that our guides had selected for lunch. In a tiny space inside the store they put out small plastic stools, while continuing to serve the public at the tables set on the street in front. We ordered various specialties of the region, taking advice from the guide and from tour group members familiar with Oaxacan cuisine - tlayudas (see my earlier post- these were even better than the ones we had in Coyoacán, though not folded: they were served overlapping the plates, quite a feat to eat with any kind of grace, and had a different kind of cheese, whiter, crumblier and tastier rather than the yellower stretchy type), tamales with various fillings (yellow or regular mole, some herb whose name I have already forgotten: Oaxacan tamales of yellow mole are served in banana leaves rather than the more usual corn husks). I stuck to water, as the drink others were ordering looked to have slimy bits in it, maybe like some of those Vietnamese drinks which I also avoid, both for sweetness as well as the texture which I find a bit alarming. I skipped the desserts: many people had a kind of crispy, probably fried, pastry shell filled with some kind of white creamy paste, looked totally artificial and enormously fattening to me and hurt my teeth even thinking about the sugar! There was also a cream coloured sorbet topped with bright red something: this might have been refreshing but I went on a search for fresh fruit instead (which proved fruitless).

Then we slowly worked our way back towards the Zocalo, stopping to look at more baroque architecture and to hear the stories of more ex-convents and the development of
religious myths and customs, how the Jesuits and other Christian proselytisers worked with indigenous customs, beliefs and festivals, just adding new meanings. He also included some history about identifying Jews and Muslims by their inclination not to eat pork, making Christians very keen to distinguish themselves by having lots of pork in their diet. We fought our way through the increasingly crowded streets, avoiding man-high rolls of plastic wrap being unfurled to sell by the 3 metre piece for book covers (this week is back to school here).
The tour had started at 11.30, and we were expecting it to end at 3, however it was after 5 by the time we returned to the Zocalo and hit the Metro. Great value, though in my feedback form I requested an English speaking version of the tour, and in his Barry suggested maps and maybe a directory of the major spots we visited.

A Night at the Opera

We went to see El Teatro Colon (the Buenos Aires Opera Company)'s performance of Puccini's Turandot last night. It was at the Auditorio Nacional, a most impressive edifice that was built in the 50's and renovated within the last few years. Mexicans do large scale monumental architecture extremely well. The forecourt is huge but doesn't make you feel small and insignificant. There are views through the open spans in the roof towards the skyscrapers, mostly hotels, in the vicinity, while much of the forecourt area is covered with glass and steel galleries. Staircases and entrances to the toilets are tucked away behind huge pillars, and there are various bars and snack and coffee places scattered about. Various sculptures, indoor and outdoor, all on the monumental scale, have been commissioned for the space for particular events as well as those originally installed. I love most of these, they all seem very confident and really enhance the space, using natural and man-made materials and sometimes pre-Hispanic themes that contribute to the Mexican-ness of public spaces.

We went with Maggui, our oldest friend in Mexico, her 90-ish mother Romy, and Estela, one of her many siblings. The handicapped access system worked in a way: public access is generally very unfriendly for the disabled, with lots of stairs and slippery surfaces, but they have a system where you ask in the carpark for a wheelchair and an attendant comes to you, takes you to the one tiny handicapped access lift, and gets you up to the level of the theatre. Maggui knows the system and so we arrived very early, but as there are so few wheelchairs they took us to a table in the forecourt where we had to unload Romy to vacate the chair. We muscled in on a table with several spare chairs: the couple whose space we were sharing turned his back on us and proceeded to natter on his phone for a while before they moved on and left us in sole occupancy.

Barry and Maggui queued for coffee: terribly slow service, compounded by the unavailability of any wine. The bars sell beer and hard liquor, but no wine or champers, so different from the Opera venues at home. Then 15 minutes before the performance (which began at 9 and ran till midnight) Maggui had to go get a wheelchair from the carpark again to actually get Romy into the theatre. At least it ensures plenty of exercise for those accompanying the handicapped person!

There was a huge and colourful display at the back of the forecourt advertising Lucha Libre, the Mexican wrestling phenomenon which is very popular here. It seemed very incongruous, crossing all kinds of boundaries - I mean, at the Arts Centre in Melbourne they may go so far as to have a display of Kylie Minogue's or Dame Edna's costumes, but hardly the wrestling!

When we entered the actual auditorium, we were blown away. In fact it seems a very appropriate venue for wrestling! It is enormous: on 3 levels, and probably seats 5,000 to 6,000. The top level wasn't used at all for the opera, but the downstairs section we were in is just vast, and even though we had paid around US$110 for tickets, we were not in the front section. The orchestra pit seemed less of a pit than it is in most venues we have seen opera: lower than the stage, but not that much lower than the front stalls. From half-way back we could see the orchestra players, though we were too far away to see them well.

The surtitles were very clear, telling everyone to turn off all functions on their mobies, while half the audience was busily talking, texting etc. on the mobile! Mind you, I didn't hear any going off during the performance.

There were lots of empty seats in the more expensive front section, but when we thought we might move down into an empty seat after interval, the staff were busily checking tickets so those seats remained empty. I don't know if there would have been more leg room in that section, but we could have used some: on average Mexicans are less tall than we are, so I suppose they cater to the mean. We were a bit uncomfortable in seats that were wide enough but only just accommodated our legs. Mostly the audience was not dressed up, even though this was opening night. There were an enormous number of uncomfortable looking shoes, however, with many women teetering on high heels, platforms, thin strappy sandals and other dangerous-looking implements of foot torture. (I noted this also at the Frida Kahlo exhibition, where everybody knows they are in for a lot of walking and standing about on hard surfaces - too many fashion victims!)

The performance itself was excellent. The sets (by Roberto Oswald) were huge and multi-level,with much impressive statuary, the costumes (by Anibal Lapiz) contrasted the masses in shades of grey, the military with lots of shiny bits, the court officials in opulent robes, and of course the Emperor in richly embrodered robes outshone only by his fantastically attired ice-princess daughter, Turandot, in robes so heavy that about 4 courtesans were needed to schlep her train every time she moved. And of course the obligatory troupe of boy dancers with nearly bare buttocks that opera designers can't resist including as eye candy.

Cynthia Makris as Turandot was excellent, very expressive and believable (well, to the extent that any opera is believable: the range of her emotions was very powerful, even if the plot requires a suspension of disbelief). Jose Luis Duval as Calaf was good, and also his emotional range was great, even though in the show stopper Nessun Dorma we have all been spoiled by the Three Tenors. Paula Almerares sang Liu, and also was really good, though her costume made one think of Pocahontas. The production was splendid, not too gimmicky but not bog standard either. Due to the size of the venue, the whole performance and all the soloists were miked, and there were 2 large video screens showing the main action in close-up. It was a bit hard to keep an eye on these, on the stage, and on the surtitles - which of course were in Spanish which I read slowly, so they kept going off before I fully absorbed them. But as with many operas, the music bypasses my brain and goes straight to my heart, so I would rate it a 3- kleenex performance.

In the foyer during the two intervals, they were doing a roaring trade in wrestling food - nachos, burgers, hot dogs, Mexican sandwiches (generally to be avoided, I find, as I hate the sweet standard-issue white bread here) popcorn, soft drinks, but the number of smokers busily puffing away chased me back inside.

W hile we were waiting for Maggui and the family to get down to the underground garage after queuing for the available wheelchairs, we were entertained by a host of valet parking attendants collecting cars. Dressed in salmon pink, their technique seemed to be to sprint wildly through the carpark to the vehicle they were to collect, quite diverting to watch, and it would be a good interval training workout for them, I guess. Barry noted that the older valets were less speedy than the young ones: I wonder if there are time trials to get and keep this job?

Driving home around 12.30AM , I was struck by how easy it is to get where you are going in Mexico City without the usual traffic gridlock. Maggui of course was driving, as neither of us is game to get behind the wheel here, but we just zipped along (and noted how many drivers ignore red lights if they persist more than a few moments). Altogether a night to remember.

Back in Tepalcatitla

I've never had a beach house, but it felt more like coming back to a familiar second home than a foreign adventure, packing for 5 months away and then arriving here at Tepalcatitla 39 in Coyoacan after 2 years away. The papier mache cow greeted us from the living room, albeit less warmly than Slippers and Jesse do when we arrive home in Melbourne, but the space, the quirky locks on the door, the lovely paintings and artesanias decorating the apartment felt very familiar and welcoming after 27 hours en route. And of course it is only 3 weeks since Barry left, so the larder is well-stocked and there were a few disgusting things in the fridge to be turfed.

Unpacking revealed a shortage of hangers, so that will have to be addressed, and I reorganised the wardrobes and got most things put away before going to bed at a reasonable hour to acclimatise to the new time zone.

By the time we got up , had breakfast and left for an excursion to the supermarket, it was afternoon. The quality of the fruit and veg at Superama (a branch of Mexican Walmart) is less good than it was 2 years ago, but the prices seemed OK. I am going to miss my rocket again, but you can get most other things I am used to, and of course I brought my own vegemite. The selection of Asian sauces seems a bit better than 2 years ago and there seem to be more staff circulating about the store with samples of things for you to try. And the check out staff (whom you must tip: this is how many school kids pay for their text books) seem less fazed when given reusable bags to pack than they were then. The comparable baskets of goodies are still there at both major supermarket chains, showing how much you would save at Walmart compared to Mega and vice versa, of course based on their weekly specials, but they do take competition seriously.

After a snack and organising the fridge and cupboards (where I encountered a mystery object - I will take a photo and ask you all what it could be), we went off to get a SIM card for my phone, which was achieved without any paperwork whatever. Last time we did this there were many forms to be filled out, and I wonder how the anti-terrorist forces of Mexico will cope with the number of untraceable SIM cards? At least if I leave it with someone, say a second cousin, it won't be readily traced back to me.

There was a lot of traffic about, and it turns out that it was the National Day of Indigenous People: as is usual on days of such celebrations, there was a festival set up in the Plaza Centenario, one of the two central squares in Coyoacan, and we went for a wander through the stalls, listened to some of the performances and watched a bit of some others, and re-acquainted ourselves with the beautiful handicrafts and regional foods on sale. We shared a tlayuda, which is like a large tortilla, spread with frijoles and sprinkled with the Oaxaca cheese which shreds as it is very stringy. It is then folded over and toasted on an open grill. The most toasty bits taste a bit like matza but are a bit less crunchy. A version is also served with marinated meat, but we stuck to the vego version with the less picante of the salsas on offer, which still packed quite a punch . Barry accompanied his with an agua de jamaica, a very typical drink made with jamaica flowers (I think it is a variety of hibiscus). The drink is usually too sweet for my taste, and it must be laden with sugar so I try to avoid it anyway, but the underlying flavour is quite sharp and refreshing. It rains every day at this time of year, usually between 4 and 6, but with umbrellas we negotiated our way to the square and the stalls were under cover. It was only light showers, fortunately, unlike Sunday when there were massive thunderstorms and a long power cut as a result in the neighbourhood we were in.

On Sunday we went to Tlalpan, another interesting neighbourhood with a central square with market stalls and street performances, and checked this out as well as the market with its many food stands, abundant fresh produce and flowers. The square abuts the Town Hall, with an entire wall of murals depicting the history of the region from 1000 years BC - pre-conquest and pre-major volcanic eruption about 2000 years ago which led to abandonment of the region for quite some time. We walked to our friends' house at 2 as invited, but typically we sat around for at least 2 hours drinking tequila and other things and eating snacks (goat's milk cheese is very popular and the Spanish olives are lovely) while others arrived much later. I really don't function so well on this eating pattern, I am always too hungry to wait for lunch at 4 and eat way too much of the snacks, and often have a couple of drinks so I won't look like a wowser, which adds to the eating. I am pretty good at making sensible choices at restaurants, but eating in people's houses is a lot harder on the waistline!

I did find, however, that I am comprehending a lot more of the Spanish than I was 2 years ago, which is probably due to the Spanish courses I have been taking at home. Still, I hardly can speak: by the time I think of something to say and figure out the grammar and vocabulary I need, the conversation has moved on. On the odd occasion I manage to get something out everyone stops to listen and I feel extremely small and foolish. Makes me realize how much I underrate all the migrants at home who do so well in English - it really is quite an accomplishment to be fluent in social situations in a language other than your mother tongue.

I am editing this in the wee small hours - jet lag compounded by a lack of serious exercise has me up when I should be sleeping. I think I will save this as a draft again, then I must find out how to notify people that I even have a blog! And How to find a photo on this Mac: I have been trained to think like a PC and don't know how to find things here, so though I have looked up how to post a photo, I don't seem to be able to locate it!