Life Style Refugee – The Ajijic Blog

Last July, I went to see our newly built house while it still had some wee finishing touches left to be done. The contractor happened to be there when I fell to my knees and burst into tears of joy, and we’ve been on pretty good terms ever since.

At the moment, he’s working on a new house next door and I just stopped in to be given a tour. He could probably tell I was pea green with envy because it’s bigger, and I think he could also tell I was working out the possiblities of adverse possession, as we say in the real estate biz. (Squatting, as it’s known everywhere else in the universe.) Anyway, he hastily sidetracked me by giving me a compliment on my improved Spanish. Ha.  Big liar.

It did push my panic button though, because I realized there’s only a month left before we go home for a visit, and I have to hurry up and learn spanish before we get back to the States. It’s like suddenly waking up with only a week to go before trying to squeeze into a size 8 dress for the 25 year high school reunion. (the limits of the blogosphere prevent you from knowing just how exqusitely unlikely that would be) I had a fantasy of returning home as a complete new person, rattling away in Spanish and wearing a circle skirt trimmed with rick-rack and a comb in my hair. Alas, there is no Frida Kahlo division of Lane Bryant, and somehow, I have forgotten more Spanish than I’ve learned since coming to Mexico. In fact, I have a growing fear of getting back to Virginia only to find that I’ve become more Canadian than Latina during my 9 months South of the Border.

My lack of linguistic progress was demonstrated the other day, when I was on the phone with my stepdaughter, who has a second major in Spanish at the University of Virginia. An ancient chevrolet caprice rolled by, two loudspeakers held on to the roof with bungee cords blaring spanish. “What the hell is that?” Kate wanted to know ” “Oh, it’s a campaign message,” I lied casually, as I didn’t care to admit that I can’t tell the difference between political announcements, the opening of a new restaurant, and the pineapple guy. It all sounds the same to me.

Except, that is, for the language of runaway passion….! and sordid infamy….!, since I am hopelessly in love with Mexican television. My maid, the indolent hussy, is carrying on in a scandalous fashion with some well heeled telephone installer. The other day she was lounging around and eating my toast while eying my shoe rack with a speculative gleam and babbling away at me as usual. Suddenly, I realized that she was no longer trying to wheedle a black miniskirted uniform with a lace apron and a little hat out of me, but had in fact just told me that alhtough the sex is good, he doesn’t treat her children as well as the ones he has at home with his wife. Somewhere along the line, I have started to understand Spanish pretty well, as long as the topic under discussion has to do with extramarital affairs, bungled murder plots, and the private yearnings of muscular gardeners. Pretty stimulating stuff.

And, let me tell you, that Mexican television has more to offer than just those riveting telenovelas. Even their version of Good Morning America, Hoy,* features Alejandro Maldenado, smoking hot yoga instructor. Can you imagine a segment on the Today Show where Matt Lauer takes his shirt off and leads you through a few stretches wearing nothing but sweat pants and a couple of shark teeth around his neck? Good Heavens.

Well. I think that I’ll save my other thoughts on Univision for another time. There are after all, still the variety shows and the unlikely newscasters dressed like rodeo clowns to be discussed and I need to move on.

*I watch Hoy and most of the telenovelas on Univision, which features a lot of programming from L.A. and Miami. Just wanted you to know I know.