First, a little background.
Rodrigo’s father is an ex-monk who received special dispensation from the Pope, to leave the brotherhood and marry his secretary, Rodrigo’s mother. His sister is the head of an order of nuns and lives in Rome. Rod’s father is one of 12 children, Rod’s mother is one of eight. Can we say Catholic?
One night Rod and I were watching the movie, “Torch Song Trilogy.” After witnessing Ann Bancroft’s character Rod said, “My mother is the Catholic version of her.” I was frightened.
Over the last two years, I have met his parents on several occasions, both in their home and in ours. They speak no English and I muddle through with my poor Spanish. Rod has been less then helpful with translating and while Rod’s father has always seemed pleasant enough, his mother has been cordial, but less than kind. (She “knows” where Rod’s dad seems to prefer the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” scenario.)
Every two years Rod’s father’s side of the family gathers for Christmas at Aunt Pili’s home in Mexico City. Usually about 40 adults and 17 children. Rod has never taken anyone home for Christmas. Yours truly, his older gringo boyfriend, who speaks very little Spanish, was to be the first.
After returning from New York we spent the night at the hotel in Mexico City. The next morning we left for Cuernavaca, which is also called the “City of eternal spring.” It was hot. Nearly Christmas and people were lying by the pool at the hotel. I had packed for New York.
After checking into the hotel, I steeled myself as we headed for Rod’s parents home for comida. When we arrived, Rod’s father had us put my new car in the driveway, behind the iron gates, for safety.
At home for comida were Rod’s parents, his older brother, sister-in-law and their two children. Shortly after we exchanged pleasantries, Rod said it was customary to give the gifts to the family before the big Christmas eve event, as the gifts at Christmas eve are usually just for the children and are from Santa. This proved great for me because I was able to help six-year-old Juan Carlos, Rod’s nephew, assemble his toy seaside scene. (He doesn’t care that I speak less Spanish than he does.)
Rod’s mother put out a lovely meal and much to my surprise, her attitude toward me has seemed to soften. Maybe she figures I’ve been around for two years now so she’d better get used to the idea. Who knows. But suddenly she is interested in what I have to say, has dropped the snide comments and made a real effort to ensure that I was included and understood everything that was being said. My shoulders began to relax. She immediately put on and continued to wear the little gold cross we bought her for Christmas.
After a delightful meal we made to leave. Rod’s father pushed the button to open the iron gate and Rod backed the car part way out of the driveway. However, he had to stop to allow traffic to pass. His father, thinking that we had left, pushed the button again. And the big door began to close. Rod leaned on the horn but his father’s response was too slow and the door hit the car, effectively leaving the very first scratch. Rod shot a glare at his father through the windshield.
“I’m sorry honey,” he said as he looked out the window at the scratch.
I hadn’t even seen it yet but just said, “It’s ok. Now I have something to remind me of your family every time I drive the car. And, the first scratch is out of the way.” It seemed kind of ironic that we survived driving in Mexico City and leaving the car unattended for a week at the hotel, and then got the first scratch from Rod’s dad. I thought about their next visit to San Miguel. Maybe I’ll ask his father to park at the end of the driveway so I can close our gate on his car.
The next day Rod’s father presented me with three different bottles of wine, nestled in a shiny wine rack, for Christmas. He then took us out to a very expensive lunch and wouldn’t hear of it when I reached for my wallet.
The following day was Christmas eve. Before heading back to Mexico City we stopped once again for a meal with the family. I was beginning to notice that Rod’s sister-in-law was warming up to me. However, Rod’s older brother would never make eye contact. Their children were all fired up about Christmas and began to get unruly. Rod’s brother lost his temper with them and the whole meal began to fall apart. I suggested that we leave since we were going to see everyone that night anyway. Rod agreed and we returned to the hotel in Mexico City.
That evening was much as I expected. With one exception, everyone was almost overly nice to me. It was as if they were genuinely pleased to meet me. And to his credit, Rod did not abandon me but did a great job ensuring that I was occupied, engaged and understood everything. In addition, a few of Rod’s cousins who I had met previously over the years, took good care of me and were careful to introduce me to anyone in the family who spoke English. To my surprise, Rod’s older brother came up to me and handed me a gift. He then pointed at himself and then to me, as if to say, “From me to you.” (That much I would have understood in Spanish.) Inside was a lovely box of Godiva chocolates. I was touched.
Children were running all over the place and at one point little Santiago and Juan Carlos came up to me and asked why I speak English. To which I had to explain that I was born in the United States but now I’m trying to learn Spanish. They seemed satisfied and ran off to resume their game of hide-and-seek.
Suddenly all the children were whisked off to see if they could see Santa arriving through the upstairs windows. Fathers then made a break for their cars to bring the in the Christmas loot and place it under the tree. Someone yelled, “Ho, Ho, Ho!” and there was a stampede of little feet on the stairs and squeals of delight as the children rounded the corner and saw the tree. One of the Uncles read out names and distributed the gifts.
During the chaos of packages being ripped apart, Aunt Pili passed out sheet music. The children were then told to put down their gifts and pick up their baby Jesus. These they carried by two, in swaddling, and formed a procession walking from room to room as everyone sang.
Dinner was served in two seating’s. There were two turkeys and a variety of traditional Christmas dishes that I have never seen before. Some were familiar, like a kind of Waldorf Salad. Others were completely different like a reconstituted dried fish dish called “Bacalao” and a dark móle dish. Everything was delicious.
We left about 2:00 in the morning and I even got hugs goodbye from Rod’s brother and his father. We returned for the “recalentado” (reheating of leftovers) the next morning before returning to San Miguel. While greatly reduced in numbers by then, there was still family sitting around the kitchen table. Some were in pajamas, others looked like they’d slept very little and were wearing the same clothes from the night before. But everyone was happy, encouraging us to stay longer and making promises to visit us.
As we were leaving, on of Rod’s aunts said something that I didn’t understand. When we got in the car I asked Rod what she said.
“She said, “Take care of him.””
I wished I’d understood and could have replied, “I’m doing the best I can.”
Rodrigo’s father is an ex-monk who received special dispensation from the Pope, to leave the brotherhood and marry his secretary, Rodrigo’s mother. His sister is the head of an order of nuns and lives in Rome. Rod’s father is one of 12 children, Rod’s mother is one of eight. Can we say Catholic?
One night Rod and I were watching the movie, “Torch Song Trilogy.” After witnessing Ann Bancroft’s character Rod said, “My mother is the Catholic version of her.” I was frightened.
Over the last two years, I have met his parents on several occasions, both in their home and in ours. They speak no English and I muddle through with my poor Spanish. Rod has been less then helpful with translating and while Rod’s father has always seemed pleasant enough, his mother has been cordial, but less than kind. (She “knows” where Rod’s dad seems to prefer the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” scenario.)
Every two years Rod’s father’s side of the family gathers for Christmas at Aunt Pili’s home in Mexico City. Usually about 40 adults and 17 children. Rod has never taken anyone home for Christmas. Yours truly, his older gringo boyfriend, who speaks very little Spanish, was to be the first.
After returning from New York we spent the night at the hotel in Mexico City. The next morning we left for Cuernavaca, which is also called the “City of eternal spring.” It was hot. Nearly Christmas and people were lying by the pool at the hotel. I had packed for New York.
After checking into the hotel, I steeled myself as we headed for Rod’s parents home for comida. When we arrived, Rod’s father had us put my new car in the driveway, behind the iron gates, for safety.At home for comida were Rod’s parents, his older brother, sister-in-law and their two children. Shortly after we exchanged pleasantries, Rod said it was customary to give the gifts to the family before the big Christmas eve event, as the gifts at Christmas eve are usually just for the children and are from Santa. This proved great for me because I was able to help six-year-old Juan Carlos, Rod’s nephew, assemble his toy seaside scene. (He doesn’t care that I speak less Spanish than he does.)
Rod’s mother put out a lovely meal and much to my surprise, her attitude toward me has seemed to soften. Maybe she figures I’ve been around for two years now so she’d better get used to the idea. Who knows. But suddenly she is interested in what I have to say, has dropped the snide comments and made a real effort to ensure that I was included and understood everything that was being said. My shoulders began to relax. She immediately put on and continued to wear the little gold cross we bought her for Christmas.
After a delightful meal we made to leave. Rod’s father pushed the button to open the iron gate and Rod backed the car part way out of the driveway. However, he had to stop to allow traffic to pass. His father, thinking that we had left, pushed the button again. And the big door began to close. Rod leaned on the horn but his father’s response was too slow and the door hit the car, effectively leaving the very first scratch. Rod shot a glare at his father through the windshield.
“I’m sorry honey,” he said as he looked out the window at the scratch.
I hadn’t even seen it yet but just said, “It’s ok. Now I have something to remind me of your family every time I drive the car. And, the first scratch is out of the way.” It seemed kind of ironic that we survived driving in Mexico City and leaving the car unattended for a week at the hotel, and then got the first scratch from Rod’s dad. I thought about their next visit to San Miguel. Maybe I’ll ask his father to park at the end of the driveway so I can close our gate on his car.
The next day Rod’s father presented me with three different bottles of wine, nestled in a shiny wine rack, for Christmas. He then took us out to a very expensive lunch and wouldn’t hear of it when I reached for my wallet.
The following day was Christmas eve. Before heading back to Mexico City we stopped once again for a meal with the family. I was beginning to notice that Rod’s sister-in-law was warming up to me. However, Rod’s older brother would never make eye contact. Their children were all fired up about Christmas and began to get unruly. Rod’s brother lost his temper with them and the whole meal began to fall apart. I suggested that we leave since we were going to see everyone that night anyway. Rod agreed and we returned to the hotel in Mexico City.
That evening was much as I expected. With one exception, everyone was almost overly nice to me. It was as if they were genuinely pleased to meet me. And to his credit, Rod did not abandon me but did a great job ensuring that I was occupied, engaged and understood everything. In addition, a few of Rod’s cousins who I had met previously over the years, took good care of me and were careful to introduce me to anyone in the family who spoke English. To my surprise, Rod’s older brother came up to me and handed me a gift. He then pointed at himself and then to me, as if to say, “From me to you.” (That much I would have understood in Spanish.) Inside was a lovely box of Godiva chocolates. I was touched.Children were running all over the place and at one point little Santiago and Juan Carlos came up to me and asked why I speak English. To which I had to explain that I was born in the United States but now I’m trying to learn Spanish. They seemed satisfied and ran off to resume their game of hide-and-seek.
Suddenly all the children were whisked off to see if they could see Santa arriving through the upstairs windows. Fathers then made a break for their cars to bring the in the Christmas loot and place it under the tree. Someone yelled, “Ho, Ho, Ho!” and there was a stampede of little feet on the stairs and squeals of delight as the children rounded the corner and saw the tree. One of the Uncles read out names and distributed the gifts.
During the chaos of packages being ripped apart, Aunt Pili passed out sheet music. The children were then told to put down their gifts and pick up their baby Jesus. These they carried by two, in swaddling, and formed a procession walking from room to room as everyone sang.Dinner was served in two seating’s. There were two turkeys and a variety of traditional Christmas dishes that I have never seen before. Some were familiar, like a kind of Waldorf Salad. Others were completely different like a reconstituted dried fish dish called “Bacalao” and a dark móle dish. Everything was delicious.
We left about 2:00 in the morning and I even got hugs goodbye from Rod’s brother and his father. We returned for the “recalentado” (reheating of leftovers) the next morning before returning to San Miguel. While greatly reduced in numbers by then, there was still family sitting around the kitchen table. Some were in pajamas, others looked like they’d slept very little and were wearing the same clothes from the night before. But everyone was happy, encouraging us to stay longer and making promises to visit us.
As we were leaving, on of Rod’s aunts said something that I didn’t understand. When we got in the car I asked Rod what she said.
“She said, “Take care of him.””
I wished I’d understood and could have replied, “I’m doing the best I can.”
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