PSN, al servicio de la comunidad

Queridos migrantes lectores de PSN,

Ayer recibí este mensaje en mi buzón electrónico y me pareció que lo mejor era compartirlo con ustedes. Es de una chica mexicana en busca de asesoría/consejo/patrocinador para irse a vivir a España. Le he aconsejado visitar el foro del sitio Mexicanos en España, donde estoy seguro encontrará alguien que le eche una mano, pero estoy seguro de que algunos de ustedes también podrán hacerlo. Lean abajo y, si tienen algo que decirle, dejen un mensaje aquí o escríbanme a aruizcamacho@hotmail.com

Gracias de antemano.

Hola, mi nombre es Cintya (sic) Guerrero. Vivo en Cancún, QRoo, actualmente, pero nací en DF. Leí tu blog porque mi novio se va a estudiar a la escuela de Diseño de Madrid en octubre y quiero irme a vivir con él. Ya fui a sacar el pasaporte y tengo dinero suficiente para vivir allá. El problema es que nadie quiere ayudarme.

En el año que quiero estar allá, quiero trabajar porque no sólo me voy por irme, sino para buscar oportunidades. Terminé mi licenciatura en Marketing pero en Cancún no he tenido buenas oportunidades. Me dijeron que busque una persona que viva en España que me dé una carta invitación, pero es obvio que no conozco a nadie allá.

Así (que) como dice tu blog, no quiero ser de las personas ilegales, pero de otra manera, ¿cómo le hago? Las personas no quieren contratarme por Internet. Además, tengo dinero para rentar junto con mi novio, o aparte, un departamento.

Por favor, oriéntame. Quisiera irme de ser posible el día 6 de octubre con él. Gracias por ayudarme. Necesito nuevas oportunidades y experiencias.

Lorenzo y el Chilango Dude (I)

My son Emiliano--who is the author of the beautiful T-Rex drawing above displayed--was born in Mexico City, but we moved to Madrid when he was four months old. Living in Texas since he was three plus years old, he speaks Spanish with a quirky, definition-defying accent and mixes Mexican Spanish with castellano, all tossed up with some Uruguayan español and, of course, tons of Anglicisms at the end of every-phrase.

However, every time you ask Emiliano where's he from, he takes his Bandera Mexicana out of who-knows-where to wave it in your face while he stands out and claims, full of pride: "de Méjico" (the 'X' heavily pronounced as sounds a rock when it scratches the pavement). Don't blame me, but his former Spanish teacher who, just like him, was born in Mexico City and taught Emiliano how to behave like a Niño Héroe.



Such undeterred patriotism wasn't enough to convince Emiliano he is a Chilango, though. For him, the official--some guys still think is unofficial--demonym for those luckily enough to be born in Ciudad de México sounds like an insult nonetheless.

Last Friday, having waken up in a particularly good mood, I cheered Emiliano with a "What's up, Chilango Dude?" when I picked him and his madrileño brother Guillermo up at school. He looked at me with his rolling-eyes attitude--he's about to turn seven, so he's already showing some attitude proclivity--and said:

--Don't call me Chilango Dude.
--¿Por qué no? Eres un Chilango Dude--respondí yo, fun-spirited.
--Yo no soy eso.
--A ver, ¿dónde naciste?
--En Méjico.
--En la ciudad de México, ¿verdad?
--Sí...--Emiliano looked at me as if trying to guess where I was coming.
--Bueno, los que nacen en la ciudad de México se llaman chilangos. Hasta hay una revista allá que se llama así (a good one, btw).
--No, se llaman mejicanos.
--Son chilangos. Por eso tú eres un Chilango Dude. Y Guille, que nació en Madrid, es madrileño.
--I'm not a Chilango Dude!--boy, was he already enojado--, y Guille es español.
--Whatever you say, Chilango Dude--remember when Charlie Brown got mad? Now you got the picture.




No matter how hard I tried to make him understand I was not joking--well, just a little bit--Emiliano didn't consent to embrace his inner Chilangoness. He didn't mind he loves to eat chilaquiles verdes, he treats himself to chile piquín-sprinkled popcorn and is able to sing some Cri-Cri songs a capella from beginning to end.

When you live in a place different from your hometown or that of your descendents, it is always funny and fascinating to see how your sons grow their own identities out of that outstanding mixture of background, origin, environment and temper.

Trying to impose an identity--your identity--over your kids is not just useless, but absurd. But it happens, though. I guess my sons will develop their own and, when the right time comes, Emiliano will embrace his chilanguería in his own particular way, just as Guillermo will embrace his inner madrileño--he's already got the chulería mood, for instance. It won't be the same as that of those chilangos and madrileños who've forever lived in Ciudad de México or Madrid, but it will be as authentic and unique.

'Cause I think we all are entitled to shape our identity not out of the place that we were born, but out of the places we belong to.

How about you? Freaked out at your immigrant child's identity crisis?

The ultimate (Mexican) sacrilegy: eating at Chipotle

Tijuana dudes do it all the time, you know. "Have you ever eaten at Taco Bell, güey?" my dearest brother in-blood Neto asked me the last time he visited us in Austin, last October. Needless to say I (hypocritically) rolled my eyes as suggesting the question was an offense: "I'm a Mexican dude, dude. Mexican dudes, I mean Real Mexican Dudes, Don't Do Taco Bell." He didn't mind--maybe because he's so used to my rolling my eyes--and went on to review that the Tostada Carnitas Fiesta Plate or the Ultimate Taco Pupusa Chicken Chimichanga Meal--I missed that part--were really súper curadas. I just managed to shrug and say: "¿Quieres más humus?" 'cause we were having lunch and, as y'all know, Real Chilango Dudes Do Ethnic Food All The Time.

The truth is, I have never eaten at Taco Bell, but I've done Chipotle. More. Than. Once. And the carnitas tacos they serve (prepared mostly by Real Mexican Paisanos, maybe that's why) are really good--if my father'd still live and read this, he would go back and die again, me cae.

Nothing compares though, of course, to the great tacos al pastor from Taquería Chapala (heads up: there are, actually, two different links in there: the first one takes you to a review from the Austin American-Statesman and the latter to one from a blog called Taco Journalism) located on East Austin out of César Chavez st. But, the real, ultimate neta is, there's no taco like the one you eat in Mexico Lindo y Qué Rica Salsita De Molcajete Con Sus Totopos Bien Doraditos and everything else. The whole authentic enchilada, pues.

But when you live out here in Planet Si Muero Lejos de Ti, you need to find alternative ways to get your taco fix from time to time. As the cliché goes, you can take the boy out of the ghetto, but you can't take the taco out of the boy's longing mouth.



Over the last six plus years, I've lived in Madrid and Austin. I can tell there are some awesome Mexican restaurants in la tierra del cocidito. Among my favorites are La Taquería del Alamillo and Entre Suspiro y Suspiro, a nouvelle cuisine-driven sophisticated and refined restaurante which I actually consider one of world's best Mexican restaurants. And a must-go destination if you visit Madrid, even if you come from Mexico.

Above all, Mexican restaurants in Madrid--not All Of Them, of course; there are some hideous ones too--feature authentic Mexican food. The reason is most of them are owned or run by Real Mexican Dudes or have brought over directito from Mexico some really good cocineros and cocineras who make their kitchens glow--with various outcomes, though. There's a place on Castellana that features a señora making hand-made tortillas on a high platform in the middle of the place in some sort of Anthony-Bourdain-meets-La Cage-aux-Folles artificially exotic and embarrassing way of entertaining los comensales. It's like a grotesque way of reminding us all that, in Mexico, lots of people still feel entitled to ask whatever they want their maids to do for a handful of pinches pesos.

Social implications aside, when you go eat those places, you can feel like home, whereas in Austin, or in Texas to that extent, you can feel at home in a vast majority of Mexican restaurants only if you're a Texan or were born in the Valley-San Antonio strip to a Mexican background. What all Texans call Mexican Food is, actually, Tex-Mex. And don't get me wrong, texanos. Some of these plates are tasteful and delicious--but, please, stop playing with that Play-Doh-looking queso amarillo.

The point is, whenever abroad, the need for going back home in the form of craving a food feast is constant and inevitable. But not just that. I think our relationship with our mother cuisine evolves with us down the migration path. But it might be a hassle, too. I admit what I miss the most about Mexico is the food. That is also what I miss the most about Spain.

Overcoming culinary nostalgia might be a good sign of adaptation to a new place. Having the ability to enjoy Mexican-like-but-not-authentic Mexican food in Texas or Scandinavia, or any other food available in The New Land maybe, definitely, a triumph of the willingness to adjust over the impulsiveness to undoing the path.

What about you, Mexicanos y Mexicanas out there? Longing so badly for your Mom's caldito de pollo, la tía Flor's albondigas? How heavy is this cultural burden to carry out when you're trying to make your way in a new, unexpected, manteca-de-cerdo-free environment?

My mouth's just watering at the possibility of hearing from your delicious accounts.