Mexico City provides the same services and businesses as most any American city. They say you can get anything in Mexico City…if you know where to look. Since many businesses don’t use internet or other directories, many times great stores are stumbled upon by pure blind luck.

While there are many poorer and crowed parts of the city, I have also been to some of the richer parts of town which if a person drove through, could honestly be confused with upper-class Los Angeles. In a city of 25 million, if there is something you want bad enough, you can find it.

Except for Rice Chex.

I am craving puppy chow and for the life of me I cannot find a box of Rice Chex.

But I digress. What I really wanted to blog about today was all of the stores and services here that are distinctly different from their counterparts in the US.

Let’s start with my bank. The first time I walked in to withdraw money I laughed out loud. Banco Azteca has a partnership with Electra, which is like Mexico’s Best Buy. The bank is located at the back, which means you need to pass through isles of electronics and household appliances to withdraw money. Many a poor Mexican has gone to deposit money and left with a new oven and hefty bit of debt. Clever but oh so low.

Gas stations are state owned. What does that mean? Every gas station is a Pemex, and the price is fixed all across Mexico. Every pump is manned by a person in green overalls. You tell him how many pesos worth of gas you want (the price isn’t even listed anywhere) and he washes your windows or sells you lubricants, antifreeze etc. depending on how much you want to spend. Afterwards you tip the Mr/Mrs green overalls and go on your way. You never leave your car.

Laundromats are fun as well. Every week I take my clothes to a place two blocks from my house. They weigh my clothes, ask me when I want to pick them up and then I go home with my ticket. The next day I go back, pay, and pick them up. They are clean and neatly folded in a bundle. It is wonderful.

Convenient stores. You find them on every corner. Since they are family owned, selection can really vary, but the biggest difference is that everything is behind bars. If I want something I need to ask for it so the cashier can go get it and hand it to me through a tiny window. This virtually eliminates shoplifting, but it is also aggravating for an American that doesn’t always know the name for what he wants. I’ve played many a game of “hot and cold” with puzzled cashiers.

Doctor and Dentist offices. They’re everywhere. Generally one room apartments either above or below where the doctor or dentist lives. For people without insurance, these are great options. Most are open 24/7 and a full physical checkup generally costs $2.50. That sounds a lot more reasonable than what we pay in the US to sit waiting in our underwear for two hours on that weird piece of wax paper in the doctor’s office. However, who knows how much the doctor knows.

As you probably know, the pharmacy scene here is completely different from the US, where a stern looking man in a white coat fills your doctor ordered prescription on a ridiculously high counter. Here the meds are dirt cheap. All of them. And you don’t need a prescription. In fact, the pharmacies compete for your business, often with loudspeakers or huge giant clown doctors that dance outside the pharmacy to Latin music. And really, who wouldn’t want to buy prescription drugs from a doctor doing the cha-cha?

Some things you buy here are quite a bit more expensive than in the US. Electronics are almost all across the board. However, black market and pirating are huge here. Every Sunday there is a video game booth that sets up, selling any video game you want for fifty cents.

If food is more your thing, brace yourself for the price of peanut butter. On the other hand, if you like fruit that is in season, the prices can’t be beat. About a month ago a man with a truck full of oranges came down the street. 100 oranges for $1. Can’t go wrong for a penny an orange…

You’re probably wondering by now what it feels like to be fluent in two languages.

So am I. If you know of someone, give me a jingle.

Frankly put, I am years away from being fluent in Spanish. I am what you might politely call “conversational” at best. What does this mean? I can get around in a Spanish speaking country with relative ease. When being spoken to directly, I understand between 70-90%. When watching TV or listening to Mexicans talk among themselves, 50-80%.

Of course these statistics fluctuate greatly between speakers, but that’s a rough estimate.

My spoken Spanish varies greatly on the topic. If we are talking generally (daily activities, pastimes, basic religious themes, etc.) I do fairly well. Conversation flow may not be “effortless” but it’s getting closer. My word choice and grammar wouldn’t be confused for a Mexican’s, but with little exception, what I am trying to express gets across.

It is still easy to get into deep water though. I would have problems explaining how to build a dog house. Beyond “dog,” “house,” and “build.” My vocabulary is seriously lacking. Hammer? Lumber? Tile? Screw gun? No clue. I have the same problem explaining the farm. Silo? Acre? Alfalfa? Combine? Go fish.

I know enough Spanish to be funny, but not quickfire joke funny. Usually by the time I’ve thought through everything and have come up with a witty comeback, the moment is past.

This kills me.

I am just reaching the point where I am starting to get puns, but not quite anything with double meaning. I am starting to use the conditional tenses correctly, which is tricky to conjugate (ex. I would have gone yesterday…) but really broadens what I can convey.

If I pay attention closely I can understand almost all of the sermons in church. This is actually easier than conversation, because the language is more formal and grammatically sound, which is the Spanish I’ve been taught in the classroom.

What is getting me right now is anything not perfectly literal. This includes cultural euphemisms like “Cat’s out of the bag” or “Its raining cats and dogs” which are different here than in English, but also more subtle things. Take “I caught the flu” for example. You don’t literally reach out and “catch” the flu, so how does that translate? English is littered with sayings like that (and of course “littered” wouldn’t directly translate either).

Outside of speaking all day, I study up to an hour each day in my grammar books to pick up on the technical aspects of the language: Prepositions, conjugations, pronouns, etc. I learn quite a bit from books that I can’t pick up on from listening and speaking. Partly because knowing “why” helps me learn faster, and partly because most people don’t bother correcting my continuous mistakes as long as they can understand what I’m trying to say.

I push myself hard, partly because I want to speak Spanish like a native speaker (a goal which I will continue to pursue in the US until I DO speak like a native speaker), and also because I am beginning to realize just how unmarketable I am in the job world and Spanish would reeeaally give me a boost.

From the limited contact I’ve had with the Spanish of other Latin American SALTers I would say my Spanish is in the bottom 20%. Disappointing? Yes, but not surprising. Kind of picked up that I was slow on languages in college. This doesn’t mean I can’t master Spanish, it just means it will take more time, the hope being that once I finally get it pounded in it will stick easier too.

Some days I have the butterfly feeling that “wow, I am really understanding all of this” and other days I have a sinking feeling of “have I learned anything in 9 months?”

I still have a long way to go. I’ve been informed that the SALTer before me picked up Spanish faster which is a less than enjoyable comparison. At the same time, one of my youth told me the other day that my Spanish is “so pure” which brings up an interesting dilemma. Would I rather learn to speak like an academic or the Spanish spoken by everyone else on the streets?

Maybe someday it will be both.

As I pass by the two-months-left mark, my calendar has become my best friend; helping me make sure I do all the things I need/want to do before I have to leave the country. Days already filled are carefully boxed by red sharpie. The next two weeks have seven days boxed in red, and five of those are band gigs.

One church concert, one high school graduation party, and in the next three nights, three concerts in the Zocalo, or city square. The invite to play in the Zocalo came from the organizers of a Christian festival that are having a three day event there. We play a praise music set the first two nights and our rock set on Thursday night.

It’s kind of a big deal. Playing in the Zocalo is a bit like playing on the capital steps in Washington DC. Not that rock bands usually do that, but you get the picture.

H2O doesn’t usually play praise music, but when Zocalo concert organizers say “jump” you say “how high?” In Mexican fashion, we had our only praise music rehearsal on Sunday. The band picked out 15 songs and Mario assured me I knew most of them.

I know four. As I write I am listening to a CD of these unknown songs on repeat, about all I can do before I take the stage to lead worship at the center of Mexico’s capital. Our God is a forgiving God right?

The band is also looking to hit the studio to record our second album. They want to do this before I leave. I am honored. It should be a fun experience. Not only are we sounding a lot better than the first album, but putting me on bass has allowed Mario to add keyboard to the mix, which is giving us a tighter and more epic Skillet type of feel, for those of you to whom that makes sense. I imagine this will be a bit different from my bluegrass and choral recording experiences. I’ve never played an instrument on an album before.

We have also received an offer to put one of our songs on a compilation album that would be sold in Walmart, Amazon, and Itunes to name a few. We’re still working out the details on that deal.

In other news, on my way home from the pastor’s house the other day I noticed that our neighbors were setting up a huge party, closing off the block, and setting up a massive audio and lights system.

I don’t really know these neighbors, but as a joke I asked if I was invited. In Mexican fashion the answer of course was yes. It was their daughter’s 15th birthday party, a coming of age birthday in Latin America, and probably the second biggest day of her life next to her wedding.

Having never been to one of these famously extravagant “Quinceañeras” I decided I would at least show up in the evening to see what it was all about. I could hear the thumping music from the DJ as if it were outside my bedroom door (until around 4:00 AM).

Around midnight I made the half a block walk to the party, just to stand in the back and take in the sights. I had only been there about twenty seconds when I noticed man about my age staring at me.

Now, I’m used to being stared at, but this was not a curiosity stare, this was one of pure hatred. I’ve never been looked at like that in my life and it made me very uncomfortable. He was obviously very drugged out and after a bit I decided it was perhaps best if I left.

As I walked away, he got up and followed me, never dropping his stare. Reaching into his hoodie pocket he showed me the outline of the pistol he had on him and picked up the pace.

I changed my pace to a brisk walk, just hoping to make it back to my house before he decided to use the pistol. I reached my door (which was thankfully open) a few paces before he did and went inside, slamming the door behind me.

I didn’t go back outside again and Mario bolted the door before we went to bed. It took me a while to fall asleep. What if my door had been locked? What if I lived another three blocks away? Would someone crazy enough to chase me to my door with a gun for no reason be crazy enough to come back the next night?

Well, he hasn’t come back, and I don’t think he will, but I’m very cautious when coming and going from my house after dark. I’m startled easily by people that knock on our door late at night, and I’ve never been so glad that in two months I have the blessing of returning to a home where I can feel safe leaving my own house at any hour.

The public transportation system here fascinates me. I take between 2-6 combis a day to get around and during these rides I often find myself drifting off into this fantasy where I publish a coffee table book, explaining Mexican combis to the world. Due to current financial situation and trouble finding a good illustrator, this might be as close as I get. I hope you find it as interesting as I do:

1. All you need to drive a combi is a driver’s license and a combi number sticker. Drivers pay for all the expenses and keep all the income. The state really has no idea who and how many people are driving combi.

2. That said, there is a formed hierarchy and set of rules on a local level that is impressively organized. Combi drivers know who they need to pay, where they need to wait in line, etc.

3. Combis make up most of the traffic since most people in my part of the city don’t drive. Its not uncommon to see 10-15 combis in a row.

4. Since the combi 10 feet in front of you that is on the exact same route will obviously steal most of your passengers, combis are constantly passing each other with a ferocious intensity to battle for position and passengers.

5. Every combi driver has a buddy in the passenger seat, whose job is to lean out the window and ask anyone on the sidewalk if they need a ride. If the combi driver doesn’t have their buddy, the front seat stays empty. Nobody sits in the front except for friends of the driver.

6. There is no written map of the combi routes. It’s a system you need to be born into.

7. Never forget anything on a combi. There is no number to call, and since in a whole year I have been on very few combis more than once, you can basically kiss goodbye anything you forget on a combi.

8. There are hundreds of “routes” in the city, with hundreds of combis driving each one. However, different combis will take different shortcuts based on traffic or personal preference, so it is crucial that you are paying attention, because even though the official “route” may go by your house, it doesn’t mean the combi will.

9. It is considered very rude to try and pay with anything over a 50 peso bill ($5.00). Many times they don’t even have that kind of change.

10. If this happens, it is not uncommon for a combi to stop and do a Chinese fire drill to the combi behind him to make change in the middle of traffic.

11. The combi system is a fairly tight family. Combi drivers often joke with each other out the windows of their vehicles when they pass, and occasionally will plug up traffic in both directions to chat.

12. I have never seen a woman driving a combi

13. Combis fill up in a very specific order. Back two corner first, followed by front two corners (inferior since you are facing the opposite direction) and then the sides and the middles.

14. A 15 passenger combi will not leave the metro station until it has 20 people.

15. If you are sitting along the side, it is actually preferable to be shoulder to shoulder so as to keep from falling out of your seat every time the driver slams on the gas. When a seat on either end opens up, there is a race to fill it.

16. You do not make small talk on a combi. That said, it is alright to say good morning or good afternoon, to which everyone responds in unison.

17. Combi drivers pimp out their vehicles with blacklights, subwoofers, spinning rims, strobe-headlights, and any other knickknacks they have on hand. You are also stuck with the music selection of the driver.

18. If you are sitting closest to the driver it is your responsibility to pass him the money from other passengers. If you are sitting next to the door it is your responsibility to open and close it.

19. If your combi has a fender-bender, everyone jumps off and gets in the combi behind him. Paying the first combi is not necessary. This has happened to me twice.

20. Some combis put up a black curtain of privacy that closes off drivers from passengers. To pay you must poke your hand through the curtain and wait for the unknown mysterious hand to take it. This curtain is very aggravating if you’re not exactly sure where you are.

21. A combi will make his route on average 15 times a day.

22. Despite the fact that a combi driver drives in circles all day with no destination, they are all very impatient and generous on the horn. I have no idea why.

23. I am very self conscious answering my cell phone on a combi. It either puts my shaky Spanish in the spotlight or gives all the kids the chance to laugh at my funny sounding English.

24. If the driver thinks he can squeeze in one more passenger, you have to choose where to squeeze your little buns in, because nobody’s makin room.

25. If the driver thinks he can squeeze in one more passengers and the passengers disagree, they will unite and kick the passenger right back out the door.

On numerous occasions I have described the city life as “cold and impersonal.” In listing the things I dislike about city living (pollution, noise, lack of personal space etc.) it all seems to make sense, but I’ve thought more this year about what it means that a city and its people are “cold and impersonal.”

I have spent my life hopping from intimate community to intimate community, from hometown, church, high school, college, etc. In these communities everybody knows each other. The atmosphere is warm and inviting.

When I pass John, Sarah or Ed on the sidewalk or in the grocery store, warm smiles and pleasantries are exchanged. John and both keep track of the same sports team. Sarah and I went to school together and attend the same church. I don’t know Ed very well but I’ve heard of the good work he does at the clinic and I know his younger brother, who is a great guy.

I see them as warm and personable because small environments allow you to know people better and because when they see me, they also acknowledge me and the value that I contribute to the community.

City life isn’t like that. All energy is focused inward on your own schedule and issues, and everyone else is blocked out. You don’t smile, you don’t say hi, and you mind your own business. To be fair, it’s impossible to wave, smile, and say hi to everyone you meet. You would look ridiculous. So in a sense it is necessary to retreat inside yourself to avoid sensory overload.

So I guess when I say that city people are “cold” I simply mean that without the chance to get to know each other, we share nothing that brings us together. I may be shoulder to shoulder on a crowded metro, but yet I’m so very alone. Lost in a sea of faces, to quote a Kutless song.

The bored looking youth in the Misfits hoodie and oversized headphones leaning against the metro doors on my right is a world away, but given a chance to know him at Bethel College, we might regularly eat lunch together.

The middle aged women to my left talking on her cell phone while balancing an active three year old on her lap completely ignores me, but if she went Freeman Academy basketball games back home, we might be chatting up a storm right now.

In short, people in the city are no different than the people back home, its just that we are all swallowed up by this mammoth city and are deprived of the chance to connect.

I have learned that city people cope with this “coldness” by forming small communities within the larger city. Whether its church groups, neighborhoods, or combi drivers, people find community.

I personally have noticed how much friendlier my neighborhood seems now that I have been here almost a year. Some of my drunk neighbors down the street will call me over to discuss English lessons that will never materialize. I exchange friendly waves with the hamburger vender on the corner in the evenings. On the other corner I talk sports with the guy who runs the fried banana stand. The cute girl who does my laundry at the Laundromat not only knows my name now, she also recently figured out how to spell it.

I still think cities are cold and impersonal, but I am learning to blame that on the way that cities operate and not on the people that live in them. I find myself humbled yet again by the realization that behind my first impressions and judgments lie 25 million amazing God-made people that aren’t too different from me, if I can only take the time and the patience to look beyond the surface.