Travel Vignette of Guanajuato, México
By Lyanne T.
I had just walked down a multitude of steps: 387 to be exact. The colorful houses in Guanajuato, the city where I spent three summers getting my Masters in Teaching Spanish, were all built along the steep hillside making for a spectacular view. I even heard that American paint companies sent their unsold bright oranges, greens, and pinks to Latin America where the people had no problem using up these vibrant hues to decorate their homes. Although it was also said that the Guanajuato government, like a controlling HOA, in order to maintain the diversity of tints and tones, sent each homeowner on the hillside a letter stating what color your house could be. Perhaps if you lived in the valley, you could quite possibly get to determine the color of your own house, like it were your own. Regardless, I naturally developed my quads morning, noon, and night – the times I had to go to class, return home for lunch, and then back to class only to return home to eat dinner, study and sleep. This was the all-natural Mexican stair master at work.
On the way down the hillside, greeting people was the daily norm. “Buenos días, señora. Buenos días, señor. Buenas tardes, señor. Buenas noches, señora.” Bowing my head like I were in Japan instead, I felt that the weight of the reverential use of titles and formality of Good Day vs. Hello meant the lowering of my head somehow from my Hawaii background. However, if I didn’t initiate the greeting, most older people just passed me by, passing me like they did to the many gringuitos who came to this city to study Spanish. I would hear these dear ciudadanos greeting each other, but ignoring everyone else. So I pushed the envelope and greeted as many as I could, almost making a game of it. And sure enough, not one passed me by without greeting me in return. Culture is deeply embedded within, even though often times it is not evident to the one living in it.
At the bottom of the hill, as I crossed the cobblestone road to slip through a callejón, or smaller street made for walking, a young woman called out, “¡Gordita! Compra mis frutas, por favor.” She had a yellow plastic tub of green, lumpy fruit. There were a few already pre-cut delectables, slipped into plastic baggies, ready and waiting to be sprinkled with chili powder. I actually didn’t know what fruit it was that she was selling, but I was pretty adventurous so I was not averse to trying some. However, you dear reader, probably recognize the term “gordita” from our American made Taco Bell, where it refers to the fat, thicker tortilla. I guess I was the fat, thicker version of a person.
Now, this was not the first time someone had referred to be as chubby, at least to my face anyway. The first time was in Guam when the doctor told me I was mildly obese. His purpose, of course, was medical, though it was still offensive enough at the time. The second time I was in Jamaica. The dark-skinned, not so mildly obese woman passed me by, referring to me as “fat.” My twelve-year-old brain at the time was already slighted by the Guamanian doctor who had, not even a year ago said the same thing. My Jamaican friend later explained that it was a complement, that fat was equated with wealthy here, that fat meant you had enough food to eat. I later found out that the strange dry mixture to which we added water to feed our dog was what poor people ate in Jamaica. And to think I thought all Jamaicans ate beef patties and jerk chicken all of the time.
But, just saying, “fatso” is not something you call an American woman, and it certainly was not going to persuade me to buy fruit. I did not take it as a complement, even though I understood quite well that it was not intended as a derogatory comment or an insulting jab at my gringo-ness. In fact, the parents of a good Mexican friend would lovingly hug and kiss in front of us, sweetly calling one another, “Gordito” and “Gordita.” “Chubs,” on the other hand, does not even come to mind as a option to call my husband, and my husband knows better than to even try joking about it with me or else off to the couch you go, dear hubby!
By Lyanne T.
I had just walked down a multitude of steps: 387 to be exact. The colorful houses in Guanajuato, the city where I spent three summers getting my Masters in Teaching Spanish, were all built along the steep hillside making for a spectacular view. I even heard that American paint companies sent their unsold bright oranges, greens, and pinks to Latin America where the people had no problem using up these vibrant hues to decorate their homes. Although it was also said that the Guanajuato government, like a controlling HOA, in order to maintain the diversity of tints and tones, sent each homeowner on the hillside a letter stating what color your house could be. Perhaps if you lived in the valley, you could quite possibly get to determine the color of your own house, like it were your own. Regardless, I naturally developed my quads morning, noon, and night – the times I had to go to class, return home for lunch, and then back to class only to return home to eat dinner, study and sleep. This was the all-natural Mexican stair master at work.
On the way down the hillside, greeting people was the daily norm. “Buenos días, señora. Buenos días, señor. Buenas tardes, señor. Buenas noches, señora.” Bowing my head like I were in Japan instead, I felt that the weight of the reverential use of titles and formality of Good Day vs. Hello meant the lowering of my head somehow from my Hawaii background. However, if I didn’t initiate the greeting, most older people just passed me by, passing me like they did to the many gringuitos who came to this city to study Spanish. I would hear these dear ciudadanos greeting each other, but ignoring everyone else. So I pushed the envelope and greeted as many as I could, almost making a game of it. And sure enough, not one passed me by without greeting me in return. Culture is deeply embedded within, even though often times it is not evident to the one living in it.
At the bottom of the hill, as I crossed the cobblestone road to slip through a callejón, or smaller street made for walking, a young woman called out, “¡Gordita! Compra mis frutas, por favor.” She had a yellow plastic tub of green, lumpy fruit. There were a few already pre-cut delectables, slipped into plastic baggies, ready and waiting to be sprinkled with chili powder. I actually didn’t know what fruit it was that she was selling, but I was pretty adventurous so I was not averse to trying some. However, you dear reader, probably recognize the term “gordita” from our American made Taco Bell, where it refers to the fat, thicker tortilla. I guess I was the fat, thicker version of a person.
Now, this was not the first time someone had referred to be as chubby, at least to my face anyway. The first time was in Guam when the doctor told me I was mildly obese. His purpose, of course, was medical, though it was still offensive enough at the time. The second time I was in Jamaica. The dark-skinned, not so mildly obese woman passed me by, referring to me as “fat.” My twelve-year-old brain at the time was already slighted by the Guamanian doctor who had, not even a year ago said the same thing. My Jamaican friend later explained that it was a complement, that fat was equated with wealthy here, that fat meant you had enough food to eat. I later found out that the strange dry mixture to which we added water to feed our dog was what poor people ate in Jamaica. And to think I thought all Jamaicans ate beef patties and jerk chicken all of the time.
But, just saying, “fatso” is not something you call an American woman, and it certainly was not going to persuade me to buy fruit. I did not take it as a complement, even though I understood quite well that it was not intended as a derogatory comment or an insulting jab at my gringo-ness. In fact, the parents of a good Mexican friend would lovingly hug and kiss in front of us, sweetly calling one another, “Gordito” and “Gordita.” “Chubs,” on the other hand, does not even come to mind as a option to call my husband, and my husband knows better than to even try joking about it with me or else off to the couch you go, dear hubby!