The Icelandic Canadian - 01.08.2002, Side 26

24
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 57 #1
Letters
Freyja Arnason, left, in Mexico with cousin
Meredith Harrison.
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2002
Hola amigos y familial
I first arrived in Guadalajara, Mexico at
the end of September 2001. My journey
down to this Mexican city was fraught with
neurosis. Although I am a fairly experi-
enced air traveller, flying merely two weeks
after September 11th resulted severe anxi-
ety. My cousin was travelling with me
although this did little to lessen my fear. I
spent the five hour plane ride nervously
ringing my hands, compulsively tucking
my hair behind my ears, humming funeral
songs and thinking of all the many things I
had not accomplished in my tragically
short life.
Alas, we made it safely to Guadalajara.
The ride from the airport was relatively
uneventful. My first impressions of Mexico
were of black-haired children riding in the
backs of trucks, air, heavy with exhaust
fumes and deliciously warm weather. We
were pretty proud of ourselves for making
it that far without any major disaters. We
relaxed and looked forward to settling in at
our new house.
Upon arriving at our homestay we were
greeted by our Mexican host mother. Her
welcoming words “No put tampon in toi-
let!” This was followed by what sounded
like an angry tirade in Spanish delivered at
a speed that would make any non-native
speaker's head spin. I settled into my room.
It was clean and comfortable with the
obligatory gory crucifix secured directly
over the bed. I drifted off into a restless
sleep and woke up an hour later, terribly ill.
Thus I spent my first night in Mexico hug-
ging the toilet bowl and making friends
with swarms of ants that lived in the cracks
of the candy-pink tiles on the bathroom
floor. Disaster number one.
The next day it was cold and pouring
rain. I was afraid to touch anything, eat,
drink or even breathe because I had no idea
what had made me sick. I went shopping
for bottled water and nearly panicked
because I didn't recognize any of the
brandnames. Huge vats of handsanitzer,
sunscreen and mosquito repellent cluttered
my dresser. The malaria pills were taken
every Tuesday morning. I got lost on the
buses, the air was polluted, the men were
lecherous. Everyone seemed to be calling
me “Gordita,” which means little fat girl.
When I introduced myself to Mexicans
they replied with confusion “Fea? Tu nom-
bre es FEA?” ( Fea means ugly girl). I spent
a lot of time at the English movie theatre
and the internet cafe in a desperate attempt
to feel closer to home. I hated Mexico.
Fast-forward a few weeks. It turns out
that everyone was calling me “Guerrita”
which means blond-girl, not “Gordita”,
which means fat-girl. I adjusted to the
buses, I hadn’t been sick again, and my rea-
sons for coming to Mexico in the first place
came back to me: the excitement of travel-
ling, improving my Spanish, experiencing a