Oh boy. She's back. Quick, don't make eye contact. Start up a conversation with the person to your left. To your right. Anyone! Uh oh. Too late... The grandma has returned, and this time she brought reenforcements: another bottle of tequila. Unopened.
Let's start at the beginning. What day is this? Monday. Where are we? In the parking lot of our apartment complex. What are we doing? Honoring Saint Ana. With whom? With our landlords, of course. They invited us to dinner. Along with the grandma, and the other 800 people eating, drinking, dancing, and drinking. Oh, and also drinking. Did I mention the drinking?? That's where the grandma comes in. We'll get to her later.
Our landlords are very religious people. They even have a calendar of all the church's important dates hung up in their window so that everyone who passes by can celebrate, too. This particular Monday happened to be Santa Ana's birthday. All weekend long, the mixiotes were prepared. They look like barbecued ribs wrapped in the skin of the leaf of an agave plant, but have a more smokey flavor instead of sweet. The men sat and tied off the bundles while the women made pasta and a soup that I truly believe was simply veggies and melted butter. Finally, Monday evening arrived.
A girlfriend and I got home at 5:00 where we were welcomed by a drunk man passed out on our steps. I calmly asked him to move out of the way, but he was unresponsive. So I tapped him on the shoulder and with a snort, he rolled over towards the wall to let me pass. How kind! Upon entering the parking lot, our hosts immediately rushed us to the head table, right in front of the band. Oh, that's right! There was also a band. A banda band, with horns and a tuba and a very loud bass drum. A band so good normal people only book them for weddings, if they can afford them. While eating, several men asked my friend and I to dance. We declined. The best was an old, toothless fellow, who said not a word; he simply pointed towards us, then shimmied.
Our landlords are very religious people. They even have a calendar of all the church's important dates hung up in their window so that everyone who passes by can celebrate, too. This particular Monday happened to be Santa Ana's birthday. All weekend long, the mixiotes were prepared. They look like barbecued ribs wrapped in the skin of the leaf of an agave plant, but have a more smokey flavor instead of sweet. The men sat and tied off the bundles while the women made pasta and a soup that I truly believe was simply veggies and melted butter. Finally, Monday evening arrived.
A girlfriend and I got home at 5:00 where we were welcomed by a drunk man passed out on our steps. I calmly asked him to move out of the way, but he was unresponsive. So I tapped him on the shoulder and with a snort, he rolled over towards the wall to let me pass. How kind! Upon entering the parking lot, our hosts immediately rushed us to the head table, right in front of the band. Oh, that's right! There was also a band. A banda band, with horns and a tuba and a very loud bass drum. A band so good normal people only book them for weddings, if they can afford them. While eating, several men asked my friend and I to dance. We declined. The best was an old, toothless fellow, who said not a word; he simply pointed towards us, then shimmied.
That's when we burst out laughing, then politely excused ourselves and left. There is such a thing as too much love. Especially if he is ancient and chimuelo.
But wait! you exclaim, you left? What about the grandma?!
She comes in later, when I returned with Myman and our roommate around 9:00.
The music was still kickin'. Some people were still eating, too, but most of the folding tables had been cleared away to make room for the dance floor. On every table (of which there were still nearly 30) we spied at least three bottles of tequila. The good stuff. Along side each bottle were various 2-liters of Squirt. From the moment we sat down, a stream of people began to approach us, tequila bottles in hand. The custom in Cholula, I learned, is to toast people with a shot of tequila accompanied with a shot (or five) of Squirt. "Cheers!" It's actually very sweet, and fun! ...until the grandma gets a little toast-happy and you remember it isn't the weekend. This was now her FIFTH driveby, and I didn't know if I was going to make it.
The music was still kickin'. Some people were still eating, too, but most of the folding tables had been cleared away to make room for the dance floor. On every table (of which there were still nearly 30) we spied at least three bottles of tequila. The good stuff. Along side each bottle were various 2-liters of Squirt. From the moment we sat down, a stream of people began to approach us, tequila bottles in hand. The custom in Cholula, I learned, is to toast people with a shot of tequila accompanied with a shot (or five) of Squirt. "Cheers!" It's actually very sweet, and fun! ...until the grandma gets a little toast-happy and you remember it isn't the weekend. This was now her FIFTH driveby, and I didn't know if I was going to make it.
Quick, don't make eye contact. Start up a conversation with the person to your left. To your right. Anyone! Uh oh. Too late...
"Hola!" she says with a grin.
My "hello" is probably best described as a grimace.
In the blink of an eye, she has taken my dixie cup and poured in the tequila. But wait! I want to say, so I do, "Espera!" and then I recieve a kick from under the table. It's our roommate, who has lived in Cholula for quite awhile.
"What are you doing??" he hisses. "You can't say no! She will think you're rude!"
My eyes must communicate to him the desperation that I feel, because he finally allows me to take just a sip, so that the grandma doesn't think I am a total grosera. "Salud!" Myman drinks the rest, and then we dance the night away. Or until our bedtime, at least. Later that night I fall asleep with a smile on my face, and a delicious mixiote in my belly.
"Hola!" she says with a grin.
My "hello" is probably best described as a grimace.
In the blink of an eye, she has taken my dixie cup and poured in the tequila. But wait! I want to say, so I do, "Espera!" and then I recieve a kick from under the table. It's our roommate, who has lived in Cholula for quite awhile.
"What are you doing??" he hisses. "You can't say no! She will think you're rude!"
My eyes must communicate to him the desperation that I feel, because he finally allows me to take just a sip, so that the grandma doesn't think I am a total grosera. "Salud!" Myman drinks the rest, and then we dance the night away. Or until our bedtime, at least. Later that night I fall asleep with a smile on my face, and a delicious mixiote in my belly.
Today, a little over a week later, we awoke to the sound of squealing. Loud, obnoxious squealing. Upon entering the parking lot we saw two, giant pigs lying on the floor. They were dead. "Excellent!" Myman said. "It must be another saint's birthday!" He wasn't far off... tonight is the celebration of the Virgin Mary's accension into heaven. I think I'll go.
