When the bell tolls.
The Mexican concept of time is famous, known affectionately as "mañana, mañana" or "tomorrow, tomorrow."
My first Teach Yourself Spanish (or whatever it was called) book had a cultural note, actually, about Mexican time versus the rest of the Western world. The book jovially explained that there is an expression here - hora inglesa or "English time" - when you want to say that something is going to happen on the dot and not to be late. I've not once heard anyone use that particular expression - the closest I've heard is "at 8, but, like, REALLY at 8" - but it's a cute idea, such an affectionate Us and Them.
Indeed, Mexicans, as compared with Canadians, do have a certain... erm... loving disregard... for punctuality. I have come to understand that a 10am business meeting means they will show up somewhere between 10:30 and 11, or maybe 12, and my boss arriving before 11am is cause for tremendous shock amongst me and my colleagues. I, myself, have done the impossible and weaned myself from my pathological need to wear a watch through a combination of laziness (the watch battery died), poverty (there are things I need more than a new battery) and a settled acceptance that -ish time is more important that exact time.
Well, except I say all this but really what I think of as Mexican time - the "Mexican time" I've experienced and adjusted to - is really more of a quasi-Mexican time. You see, the vast majority of most closest friends here in Mexico are rather un-Mexican in that particular aspect. (Or perhaps they simply try a bit harder with their retentive Canadian friend? I should ask them sometime... ) Certainly, it's Pavel who leans on me to get out the door to make it to the movie in time, and Evangelina has shown up at my door on more than one occasion while I was still frantically brushing my teeth. Sure, yes, there are a handful of people in my life who make plans and never show up, or who show up hours late and unapologetic, but I tend to write those off as the jerks and move on.
(For the record, my friends are also distinctly un-Mexican in a couple of other aspects, such as: have you ever heard of a Mexican who doesn't like chile? It's so much fun when a server warns me, the iron-stomached guera, about a dish's fiery goodness and it's Mexican Evangelina who, with gratitude, chooses something milder. Her brother, apparently, doesn't eat beans. Next thing they'll be telling me they don't wear ponchos and ride burros!)
It is currently 4:30pm on Friday afternoon, a little over halfway through the timeslot given by Cablevision for the technician to come repair our blitzy cable. (He has until 6.) We mutually agreed upon this time last Saturday, when I went all the way down to a Cablevision office to ask them for help following a saturation of expensive cellphone calls (we don't have a landline) for directions that proved unhelpful.
I am watching the little hand move around the clock with mild but still palpably increasing anxiety. Technically he has an hour and a half left, I remind myself. Technically our cable has been out for over a month now and I've survived just fine so another weekend without it wouldn't make any difference, I tell myself. Technically I'm not in Canada so I can't just assume that, when a company says to me, "sit around your house and wait for us from 2pm to 6pm," that that means they will actually show up, I try to convince myself.
And, really, I should know better.
Backwards, one week.
The Wednesday before last, Luz y Fuerza cut our power off for non-payment. I was standing at the door of the building when the guy literally took massive scissors and cut the actual wire (I always thought "cut off" was a euphemism for flicking a switch, whaddayaknow) but he wouldn't talk to me and listen to my desperate pleas that we had, in fact, paid, and I had the receipt to prove it because... well, honestly I don't really know why he wouldn't talk to me. He just snipped and ran.
Thursday morning Pavel and I spent nearly three and a half hours in our community Luz y Fuerza branch, whereupon the disaffected youth behind the counter examined our receipt, confessed they'd cut us off by accident, and promised someone would be by the next day to reconnect us. I complained about two days without power when we'd paid, damn it, while Pavel just smirked.
No one came on Friday, of course. Pavel knew that. He wasn't even surprised when I told him.
Whereas I, all puffed up in my Canadian fury - "but you promised!!!" - called the Luz y Fuerza customer service line to demand something be done tonight. The surprisingly unapologetic and surprisingly uninterested man on the other end merely remarked, repeatedly, after every attempt of mine to make him see what a travesty this was, that my best bet would be to go back to the office on Monday morning and maybe speak to a manager this time. I hung up with a spat out, "pendejos!", which made the guy at the phonebooth next to me (remember: no home phone) giggle.
The silver lining of this story: I successfully executed my first angry consumer phone call in a foreign language, thank you very much.
So, when examining the odds of Mr. Cable Repair Man actually showing up in the... oh... one hour and 18 minutes he has left - "you promised!!!" - I should take into account the fact that all of this chaos with Luz y Fuerza happened a week and a half ago and THEY STILL HAVEN'T SHOWN UP. The reality is: if it weren't for a friend with a wrench and quick fingers, I would be without power to this very day.
Man, I so owe that kid a beer. Seven beers: one for every additional day I would have been without the power I'd paid for were it not for him. To date.
Pavel doesn't think the cable guy is going to show and I am starting to come round to that opinion myself. The challenge will be to not get all heated and tormented if this most likely of occurrences occurs, but rather to smile and laugh and say, "Ah, Mexico" while I crack open a Corona (ok, I don't drink beer but "Coca Light" doesn't have the same ring to it) chilled by stolen power.
4:52pm. One hour and 8 minutes.
Breathe.
My first Teach Yourself Spanish (or whatever it was called) book had a cultural note, actually, about Mexican time versus the rest of the Western world. The book jovially explained that there is an expression here - hora inglesa or "English time" - when you want to say that something is going to happen on the dot and not to be late. I've not once heard anyone use that particular expression - the closest I've heard is "at 8, but, like, REALLY at 8" - but it's a cute idea, such an affectionate Us and Them.
Indeed, Mexicans, as compared with Canadians, do have a certain... erm... loving disregard... for punctuality. I have come to understand that a 10am business meeting means they will show up somewhere between 10:30 and 11, or maybe 12, and my boss arriving before 11am is cause for tremendous shock amongst me and my colleagues. I, myself, have done the impossible and weaned myself from my pathological need to wear a watch through a combination of laziness (the watch battery died), poverty (there are things I need more than a new battery) and a settled acceptance that -ish time is more important that exact time.
Well, except I say all this but really what I think of as Mexican time - the "Mexican time" I've experienced and adjusted to - is really more of a quasi-Mexican time. You see, the vast majority of most closest friends here in Mexico are rather un-Mexican in that particular aspect. (Or perhaps they simply try a bit harder with their retentive Canadian friend? I should ask them sometime... ) Certainly, it's Pavel who leans on me to get out the door to make it to the movie in time, and Evangelina has shown up at my door on more than one occasion while I was still frantically brushing my teeth. Sure, yes, there are a handful of people in my life who make plans and never show up, or who show up hours late and unapologetic, but I tend to write those off as the jerks and move on.
(For the record, my friends are also distinctly un-Mexican in a couple of other aspects, such as: have you ever heard of a Mexican who doesn't like chile? It's so much fun when a server warns me, the iron-stomached guera, about a dish's fiery goodness and it's Mexican Evangelina who, with gratitude, chooses something milder. Her brother, apparently, doesn't eat beans. Next thing they'll be telling me they don't wear ponchos and ride burros!)
It is currently 4:30pm on Friday afternoon, a little over halfway through the timeslot given by Cablevision for the technician to come repair our blitzy cable. (He has until 6.) We mutually agreed upon this time last Saturday, when I went all the way down to a Cablevision office to ask them for help following a saturation of expensive cellphone calls (we don't have a landline) for directions that proved unhelpful.
I am watching the little hand move around the clock with mild but still palpably increasing anxiety. Technically he has an hour and a half left, I remind myself. Technically our cable has been out for over a month now and I've survived just fine so another weekend without it wouldn't make any difference, I tell myself. Technically I'm not in Canada so I can't just assume that, when a company says to me, "sit around your house and wait for us from 2pm to 6pm," that that means they will actually show up, I try to convince myself.
And, really, I should know better.
Backwards, one week.
The Wednesday before last, Luz y Fuerza cut our power off for non-payment. I was standing at the door of the building when the guy literally took massive scissors and cut the actual wire (I always thought "cut off" was a euphemism for flicking a switch, whaddayaknow) but he wouldn't talk to me and listen to my desperate pleas that we had, in fact, paid, and I had the receipt to prove it because... well, honestly I don't really know why he wouldn't talk to me. He just snipped and ran.
Thursday morning Pavel and I spent nearly three and a half hours in our community Luz y Fuerza branch, whereupon the disaffected youth behind the counter examined our receipt, confessed they'd cut us off by accident, and promised someone would be by the next day to reconnect us. I complained about two days without power when we'd paid, damn it, while Pavel just smirked.
No one came on Friday, of course. Pavel knew that. He wasn't even surprised when I told him.
Whereas I, all puffed up in my Canadian fury - "but you promised!!!" - called the Luz y Fuerza customer service line to demand something be done tonight. The surprisingly unapologetic and surprisingly uninterested man on the other end merely remarked, repeatedly, after every attempt of mine to make him see what a travesty this was, that my best bet would be to go back to the office on Monday morning and maybe speak to a manager this time. I hung up with a spat out, "pendejos!", which made the guy at the phonebooth next to me (remember: no home phone) giggle.
The silver lining of this story: I successfully executed my first angry consumer phone call in a foreign language, thank you very much.
So, when examining the odds of Mr. Cable Repair Man actually showing up in the... oh... one hour and 18 minutes he has left - "you promised!!!" - I should take into account the fact that all of this chaos with Luz y Fuerza happened a week and a half ago and THEY STILL HAVEN'T SHOWN UP. The reality is: if it weren't for a friend with a wrench and quick fingers, I would be without power to this very day.
Man, I so owe that kid a beer. Seven beers: one for every additional day I would have been without the power I'd paid for were it not for him. To date.
Pavel doesn't think the cable guy is going to show and I am starting to come round to that opinion myself. The challenge will be to not get all heated and tormented if this most likely of occurrences occurs, but rather to smile and laugh and say, "Ah, Mexico" while I crack open a Corona (ok, I don't drink beer but "Coca Light" doesn't have the same ring to it) chilled by stolen power.
4:52pm. One hour and 8 minutes.
Breathe.
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