Two days ago I took a cab to the Tuxtla Gutierrez airport, got confused about getting on the right plane, got lost in the Mexico City airport, tried to find the buses, bought a ticket to Pachuca, waited 45 minutes, and finally boarded a big green monster with front mirrors that arched forward like rabbit ears.
The driver put on a video for us to watch: a Spanish overdub of Welcome Home, Roscoe Jenkins (which I’d never heard of). It was funny to hear James Earl Jones as a deep-voiced Mexican. When I got tired of trying to figure out what Jaime Earl was saying, I looked out the window. It’s desert here, with parched mountains, Joshua trees, beavertail cacti, and all manner of things that Molly likes — probably including tarantulas, giant centipedes and scorpions.
At the Pachuca bus station, still addled and hauling two heavy suitcases, I made my way to a payphone. As I started to dig for money I heard my name. What a relief. My new boss Magdalena, who is also the owner of the house I’m staying in, greeted me with the now-familiar cheek kiss.
Since then I’ve not ventured forth on my own yet because I don’t know where I am, have no map, and the streets can’t make up their minds where they want to go or what they want to be called. We’re far from the town center. Furthermore, there’s a big Rottweiler here that blocks my exit. In Spanish and English, Magdalena and her housekeeper Reyna have tried to explain to me how to leave, but I don’t understand. It’s something about keys and umbrellas and several different doors and llaves and a sharp stick.
From my window I can see two hills. On one (as pictured) is the biggest Jesus you’ll ever want to see. On the other, an equally large Mexican flag, always billowing horizontally because the wind rarely stops here.
Mountains surround the town on three sides, but they’re not pristine. A mass of multicolored houses have crept up their flanks; according to Magdalena, that’s where the dangerous neighborhoods are. She also told me that people think of Pachuca as a woman, because its weather is forever changing from minute to minute. I replied that it sounds more like a man to me.
Magdalena speaks passable English, so I haven’t been using Spanish except for a word here and there because I’m embarrassed. I guess I take the risk only when I need to. Once or twice I’ve been entertained by her English, though. There was the time we were talking about her homestay student last year. “Is she Chinese?” I asked. “No, I think she’s a vegetarian.”
Reyna speaks no English, but sadly that’s not providing me an opportunity to learn. Her speech is incomprehensible to me. I can barely pluck out even a word. Partly it’s because she speaks fast. But there’s something else. I can’t tell if she has an accent or uses different vocabulary or my ears have gone bad. When I ask for clarification and slower speech, she only speaks louder. Adding to my lack of comprehension is the background traffic and dog noise that would make it hard to understand even English.
Yesterday Magdalena took me to lunch with the director of the university program with which my three colleagues — Kim, Sarah and Brandon — will be working. I think her name’s Norma: a diminutive and talkative woman (fluent in English) who was very friendly to me. She offered me her right cheek and then offered me a job. I like cheeks, but am relieved they don’t do lips here.
This is a difficult transition. I was supposed to start teaching tomorrow, but M said she doesn’t know if she has enough students for me. I’ve been trying to stave off panic. Who will my students be? How old? What levels? I don’t know. When I asked M when I’d know more so I could prepare, she said, “Don’t worry. Just do what you always do.” Hmmm. The only thing I’ve always done is not teach English. “One of your classes will be a conversation class, so that will be easy.” I beg to differ.
So here I am in a strange, cold town where I know no one, faced with the prospect of doing something I’ve never done without the benefit of support or preparation.
It wasn’t until late this afternoon — after Magdalena took me for the best ice cream on the planet — that I got a preliminary sense of my schedule. I won’t begin teaching tomorrow after all. Instead, I’ll be on duty Tuesday and Thursday nights from 5:00–7:00 pm, when I’ll be teaching… children (which has never been part of the plan, and which I’ve never done). From 7:00–9:00 I’ll have intermediate to advanced adults. Both of those classes adhere to a workbook, which sounds like no fun at all, but maybe that’ll be easier. And on Saturday mornings from 9:00 to 1:00 — four hours — I’m to teach that advanced conversation class. Oh, man. What have I gotten myself into?
Further, I can tell from talking with M today that she has specific expectations for curriculum and testing, but I have no idea what they are. I asked if, rather than teach the first class, I could watch her. She agreed. I asked if I could deviate from the workbook, about which she was less amenable. But I hate workbooks. And one facet of its instruction involves an audio tape of a scripted conversation. I can’t stand that stuff. I may try to sneak in something equivalent and hope I don’t get busted. Strangely, I realized only just now that, for someone who’s never taught before, I sure have strong opinions about it.
So as you might imagine, my spirits are fractured and sagging. This town (built on the economy of its nearby silver mines) is large, cold and unfriendly. Not a tourist in sight, which means I need Spanish that I don’t have. I asked about language classes but apparently none exist. I’m frustrated and anxious. I guess I’ll go to bed.