I arrived to my destination, Hermosillo, and I cast myself into the unmentionable details: the personality of the sidewalk, the road signs, the things Hermosillenos don’t consciously notice because who thinks about sidewalks? Like myself with the extreme haircuts of Tampa, I didn’t notice the idiosyncrasies of South Florida until I moved to Georgia. Now I notice the palm trees, the humidity, the flatness for miles, the drastic hairstyles for the heat, when I go back.

But I am in Mexico now. I sit staring out the window of my AirBnB, comfortable, beautiful. It did not disappoint. I live with a roommate in my everyday life, and having this space entirely to myself at $20 a night is exactly what I hoped for Spring Break! And as different as Mexico is from Guatemala (different countries, different cultures: just different) my Peace Corps brain kicked in almost instinctively.

For example, I considered the cost of running the refrigerator. In fact, the owners probably unplug it when they don’t expect guests for a while. I consider how much water I use as I wash my hands, because I don’t know if there is a steady supply. I notice the jug of water on the floor, remembering that I shouldn’t drink water from the tap. Mass chlorination is costly. But maybe this tap water is potable. What do I know?

Then I consider energy use in the USA: I consider the climate crisis and know the USA is the captain of the sinking ship. Evident in the water pressure in our showers, the amount of toilet flushes in a single day, the dishwasher… the baths. I am not so much judging (okay, I am but I include myself in the criticism), I am more considering that if you don’t leave your country, there are so many things you don’t notice. (Note I know leaving the USA is not accessible to many). I just like having the opportunity to muse over things as simple as water pressure.

Upon my arrival (see part one for the tale), I danced around the casita with excitement and waited for the afternoon sun to somber before my run. As I stepped onto the street, excited for my first run in Mexico, I remembered that I forgot. I forgot about the street dogs. Recently in Tucson, a dog chased me out of his fence and nipped at my legs as I ran. I fear this every time I run.

A dog bite is Public Enemy #1. Across country lines, I don’t worry about kidnapping (who would want to deal with this RBF ALL of the time?) or getting robbed (I mean it would be annoying, but to this day, it’s never happened) or getting shot (hello, I am a public school teacher in the USA)… What scares me are… THE DOGS. And before I judge a country for having chronic stray animals, I have to remember that part of the reason there aren’t many strays in the USA are tragic.

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I eased into this run with Natalia LaFourcade in my ears, a renowned Mexican musician, to bridge the tension of my fantasies into the reality. I felt joy to notice small things again, like storefronts and signs I never see in Tucson: se usará grua your car will be towed, or the names of street shops like OXXO (Circle K) and pharmacies with family names. I remembered I was out-of-place as I garnered looks, the kind that linger, for running on the road and with legs exposed (hairy, to boot). Our fantasies don’t include the imperfections, only our memories do that.

The second thing I forgot was the sidewalks. Now, sidewalks are not a perfect science: there are tree roots, there are earthquakes, there is the slow resettling of things. There are imperfections. But as an able-bodied person, I am barely inconvenienced by these imperfections in the USA. However, the sidewalks in Hermosillo are simply not made for running. I remembered this when I almost got 4 sprained ankles from undulating curbs, bumpy edges, holes where trees used to be, unmarked speed-bumps. Worst of all were the fenced dogs who sprang up, suddenly barking bloody murder at me, from a distance of 2 feet.

Más que todo, I was flooded with memories of Guatemala.

I was reminded of the corner shops, the assiduously swept sidewalks even though trash, dust and dirt are inevitable. I recognized the water from the morning cleans: it’s not because it rained, it’s because folks treat the sidewalk that surrounds their property like their front yard and rinse and scrub it every morning. I smiled as I glanced at cookie wrappers I recognized, splayed out on the sidewalk. I notice fancy storefronts with English, used in a way that a native speaker might not say it: like the uppity restaurant called Sushi and Beer.

As I try to keep a steady pace on a busy street, I run toward a person carrying a large basket with snacks. I move to the right to pass him and he does too. I move to the left and he does too. What is he hoping the outcome will be¨? I clearly don’t have a wallet, so I will either crash into him or steal a bag of chips and keep running. I hear him say something through the mask, but I don’t understand what he is saying or doing. I keep running.

I am filled with nostalgia for nostalgia. A normal occurrence suddenly carries a deeper meaning because I am in a different country, like a leaf dragging across the sidewalk that makes an unusual sound (that’s a real example). I draw conclusions about everything, constantly filling in the blank: “Mexico is ________.” Then I fight the urge because I know how impossible it is to complete “United States is ________.” Humans love filling-in blanks. Our minds resonate with one or two words to describe a place, but it’s impossible. I think of the teens I passed wearing Nirvana shirts. I imagine many estadounidenses would not imagine Nirvana shirts and blue hair when they think of Mexico.

But to be in a different country, you have to breathe the air, fill-up your gas tank and wonder “to tip or not to tip?” These are the moments of being foreign that shake up my brain and remind me that societies are all remarkably unique. Everybody does it a little differently and a lot the same.

Going to the grocery store was a whole mood, like flipping through an old yearbook. I remember hand-washing my clothes in the pila with the same brands of soap lining the shelves. Each aisle was like remembering different classmates I knew when I was young, coming back to me. The pasta, the vegetables, the brands, the products. I bought two packets of refried beans of out nostalgia. I survived off of these in Santa Clara, though the brand wasn’t the same. I smiled at the peanut butters I clung to for reminders of home when I lived in Santa Clara. But I didn’t fall for it this time. I knew this peanut butter didn’t cut it. I also noticed that, even with a high of 88 degrees, I was the only woman wearing shorts. Women always covered their legs, it seemed. I noticed some men wearing gym shorts, but those were the only legs that were exposed like mine.

The bagging assistant didn’t need to hear my accent to know, I wasn’t from around here. -Very good- he said in an accent from someone who has only probably heard English on TV. I smiled. But also: most tourists don’t go to grocery stores. I have always been different in that regard. I want to know the grocery stores. I want to look at the colors, the brands, listen to the music and interact at check-out. This appeals to me more than sitting alone awkwardly in a restaurant and paying for overpriced tacos because I don’t know better. Also, restaurants involve ordering and this is always stressful for a non-native speaker. In grocery stores, it’s just you and the beautiful letters dancing across the labels.

Today I drove to downtown Hermosillo. After securing a parallel spot and inserting a $5 peso coin into the parking meter, I began to walk. I walked. All I wanted was to walk, to be among the life happening around me. I walked into a café with a beautiful terrace, and they let me wander around without so much as an expectation that I stay or order. I was obsessed with the decor. I went to a used clothing store, it reminded me of the pacas in Guatemala, and then I finally stopped for a paleta.

“¿De dónde eres?” el paletero asked, curious.
I asked: “¿Cuál sabor es lo más popular?” (what flavor is the most popular?) and he told me the name of every flavor (there were 15). My question did not set sail, I supposed. I picked Pistachio, cream-based and not ice-based (I’m not crazy, okay) and as he handed it to me, I told him I am from Tucson. He said “But not originally, right? Because you don’t speak like you are from there.” and I said “Well, I know a lot of people who don’t speak Spanish in Tucson” and he said “You sound French.”
Now, I do not know how many French people are galavanting through Hermosillo, but I’d venture to guess it’s not many. Also, I was wearing a shirt woven by the indigenous communities of Guatemala. Also, I learned Spanish in Guatemala and I don’t know any French.

Ni modo. I told him: “No, no soy Francesa. Solo como pan francés.”
No, I am not French. I just eat French bread.
With that he laughed, and I told him to take care.
My pistachio paleta had walnuts in it, news to me. By the evening, I had my fill of downtown and headed north to my AirBnB. I was not used to seeing my own car in a parking spot in Mexico.

I dropped off my things and hit the sidewalk in search of tacos. I walked past a man on the sidewalk who said: “Tienes un nuevo lewk” You have a new look. (You can imagine I was confused). I responded: “¿Oh, me visto corriendo?” You saw me running. (which, now that I think about it, I said incorrectly. It’s me viste). Anyway he nodded and I said: “Es que, solo me bañe” I didn’t change my look, I just bathed. We both laughed and he said sale. I’m hearing that a lot around here. Sale. It means “alright.”

I was amused to be in a place small enough where you are noticed from two runs. Then again, no other woman has their hairy legs out running down the street cursing when she almost falls on her face and jumping out of her skin when a dog appears.

A note on street dogs: I noticed this morning as I ran (for the last and final time on the streets of Hermosillo) that I jumped in fear when I locked eyes with a street dog, but they did not move. The dogs who gave me the most headache were the ones behind fences, who belonged somewhere and had some place to protect. I happened upon a street chihuahua who remained so still that I turned back to see if it was a statue. I imagined him taking off for my ankles, but he remained, not even looking in my direction. The same happened with another mutt, and another.

It occurred to me that we were the same, the street dogs and me. We were out in the elements together. So we stayed out of each other’s ways. And that was just fine with me. A French woman does not need to be chased by street dogs.