Te Quiero, Man

Miranda took off on a 12-day work trip to the U.S. last week, and felt badly about leaving me alone in Puebla. I told her not to worry – reminding her that ripping out the pages of our kitchen calendar and counting down the days until we move back to Austin was something I could just as easily do alone. Still, she knows that my life here is infinitely more interesting with her around to help make fun of all the things we haven’t bothered to try to understand.

It’s not like when we live in Austin and Miranda goes away on a trip. In Austin I have friends I can go out with and Thai food I can make love to while she is away. But here in Puebla, friends are at a maximum minimum and Asian noodles are non-existent, thus I spend most of my time alone working out and watching Woody Allen DVDs. I’m getting buffer and more neurotic than ever before; when I’m not at the gym or at Blockbuster, my time is spent obsessing over the fact that my biceps are going to die some day.

For this latest work trip, Miranda decided to give me some assistance before she left. She knows how much I enjoy the company of others, and how much safer it is for me to have people around in case I overdose on vodka Red Bulls. Thus, before she set off on her business trip, my wife set me up on a date.

With a man named Oscar.

Oscar (pronounced “oh scar”) is a professional Mexican photographer Miranda knows from work; he takes pictures of the furniture products that Miranda is helping to produce down here. After learning that Oscar had lived abroad (in Milan), has travelled all over, is a big foodie, and is not an anti-Semite, Miranda was very excited to introduce us. She knew that, as eager as I am to amplify my social life in any way, I’m more interested in meeting Poblanos than I am expats, as getting to know the former is the key to understanding the essence of the city and, importantly, its speed bumps. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that Oscar speaks English with some proficiency, which can come in handy when my Spanish synapses aren’t firing on all cylinders. Oscar’s inglés is also a plus for Miranda, who continues to boycott the Spanish language due to political reasons (she feels that if she speaks español, the Mexican drug lords win).

To help keep things breezy, Miranda chaperoned Oscar and my first man-date. She arranged for the three of us to have dinner out last Tuesday, the night before she left for Texas (en route to North Carolina for a big furniture show). I’ll admit, I was excited about the prospect of having a new pal in Puebla, though I wanted to play kind of hard to get, thus I wore a long sleeve shirt so as to not show off too much sinew.

We met up at a restaurant near our apartment. I had the fish. Oscar had the big salad. It could not have been any gayer. Especially since there was a beautiful woman (Miranda) sitting right there at our table but receiving no attention. We weren’t trying to ignore her; it was just that the conversation took off in Spanish – about photography, writing, food, wine, travel, the expat experience, etc.

Oscar and I really hit it off, occasionally switching to English in honor of the wonderful woman who helped bring us together. Not that Miranda cared about being left out of the dialogue; after all, there was a bottle of wine at the table. Besides, seeing me finally connect with somebody down here (besides our beloved but often-out-of-town Tony) made her happy, as she knew that it meant a 75%-85% decrease in my bitching and moaning.

When the evening came to an end, that awkward first man-date moment arrived: Do you go in for a bro-hug, or just settle for a simple handshake? If one man initiates the former while the other simultaneously commits to the latter, irreparable damage can be done to a budding bromance. I played it safe – extending my hand for a shake – and, fortunately, Oscar had the same thing in mind. Bromance saved.

Miranda left for her trip the next day, and two days later I received an email from Oscar inviting me to hang out the following day (Saturday). He would pick me up at 5 pm, show me aspects of the city that few gringos ever discover, then we would meet up with his girlfriend and a buddy of his for dinner. While I usually reserve late Saturday afternoons for rapping alone in the bathroom and a healthy pre-vodka nap, I gratefully accepted his invitation.

Oscar arrived right on time the next day; such punctuality made me question his full Mexican heritage. After he assured me that his father was not a Swiss milkman, we took off on our tour.

Oscar is very proud of Puebla, but is also able to poke fun at some of its idiosyncrasies and annoyances. (We have that in common, minus the pride part.) We walked through the city’s historic center, which I’d seen on numerous occasions, but not in this way. Experiencing Puebla through a local photographer’s eye and via his artistic sensibility is quite different from trudging through the streets as an aggravated American in desperate search of a turkey sandwich.

Oscar pointed out several buildings I had overlooked during previous strolls, providing colorful commentary on their architectural and historical significance. He took me down a street lined entirely with shops selling nothing but traditional Mexican sweets. He urged me to try some sort of strange fried taco (called a molote) at a popular food stand. Under normal circumstances, being force-fed fatty food would be a deal-breaker for me, but for some reason I felt a sense of gratitude toward Oscar for taking the time to reveal the hidden, high-cholesterol and high-triglyceride side of his city.

Later on at dinner, I met and shared stories with his girlfriend Monica and his old pal, David (“Dah-veed”). The four of us ate and drank and laughed together, my español building up more momentum than ever before. For the first time since arriving in this city three months ago, I felt like I belonged. Ich bin ein Poblano.

During the drive home late that night, Oscar invited me to play soccer with him and several friends the next morning. You must understand, a Mexican inviting an American to play soccer is one of the most powerful and sincere gestures of friendship there is, like when a Thai invites a tourist to smoke opium, or when a Texan invites a tourist to touch his truck. Clearly, Oscar was ready to take our relationship to the next level.

But were we moving too fast? Perhaps. But when your wife is away and your only other social outlets involve imaginary dialogue with Annie Hall and real dialogue with your own deltoids, you don’t play too hard to get.

I passed the soccer test with flying colors – playing goalie (as I did in high school) for our team and helping us to a 4-1 victory, further cementing the bond between Oscar and me. (He told me before the game that it was all just for fun and exercise, but I questioned that after seeing the opposing team’s goalie cutting himself at halftime.) Gaining the soccer seal of approval in Mexico is instrumental in winning friends and influencing people. In fact, after my third diving save during the game, Oscar asked me if I had ever considered running for local office.

Since that game last Sunday, Oscar has invited me out two more times and introduced me to several of his friends, all educated creative types – photographers, writers, graphic designers – with whom I’ve had fantastic conversations. They have helped me to overcome my initial Puebla stereotypes and my desire to heavily self-medicate. Nobody I’ve met through Oscar blasts indescribably bad music from their homes or vehicles; none of them have rammed their cart into me at the supermarket; none of them have tried to end my life on the highway; and none of them have pulled me over to relieve me of what’s in my wallet. Aside from their affinity for mixing beer and clam juice, and their belief that Jesus had blonde hair and blue eyes, they are premium people.

My eyes have been opened to a whole new Puebla. I’m just sorry that all this has happened while Miranda has been away. Though she is happy that I’ve made a good friend and am on the way to making numerous others, I can tell she is a little hurt that I’m not getting drunk every morning and sobbing over her extended absence.

Miranda, don’t worry – I do miss you and I can’t wait for you to come home on Monday. You are the coolest woman I know, and I love you madly. But don’t get upset if, the next time you ask me to play Scrabble or watch dubbed re-runs of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, I tell you that I have plans with Oscar. Often you will be invited, too; but the point is – and this may be tough to hear – I think we should see other people.