I keep forgetting that I’m in Mexico, where portion sizes tend towards American proportions. I ordered a large Americano, which I typically expect to be somewhere in the 10-oz. range, and got a mug that had, no joke, the volume of my entire face. It kept me warm for 2 hours as I cuddled with the random dogs that would explore the cafe as their owners sipped and munched.
Class actually went well today. The main event of the day was making carnitas. All the food was good (except the brain quesadillas, which I maintain are not food, at least for me, and therefore did not try) and I got to practice lots of salsa-making skills.
The only bad thing, which kind of ruined it, was that once again, some of my team members got their Toppers and packed up before we ate. I know a few days ago, some other team ate some of our food, and M has been annoyed about it. I think she needs to chill the heck out. Anyway, she carefully partitioned our carnitas into equal portions to ensure that no one hogged them. I packed my tupperware, leaving a little bit on the cutting board to try fresh, and went to find a plate. When I got back, someone had stolen the clearly-not-theirs pile of meat, and once again I had nothing to eat with the class except what I’d already packaged to take home. It would have been depressing to eat out of my little Topper by myself while the rest of the class was having family dinner on handmade clay dishes, so I left early.
In the evening, I had a good time getting hopelessly lost at Mercado Jamaica (Hibiscus Market), the icon for which on the metro is, inexplicably, not a flower, but an ear of corn.
I bought a number of fruits, including one called a noní, from a nice man whose daughter lives in Texas and who gave me some helpful tips about when and how to eat the fruit. Once I got home and googled, I learned that the noní is known in English as vomit fruit, for reasons that are clear to anyone who smells it. I threw it away.
I’m impressed by the compassion people have for buskers and street vendors here. If you’re sitting outside, people come by your table constantly asking for change or offering a lollipop or a bottle of water. Whereas in Germany you typically avoid eye contact and shake your head or ignore them, here people look you in the eye and either say “No, gracias, señor/ita/chico/chica” or, surprise of surprises, actually buy something. Also, when buskers come by and sing a song, they go individually to each table asking for donations, and I would say at least half of the tables typically pitch in. It took a bit of time for me to stop defaulting to being kind of a jerk, just because that’s how it’s done elsewhere. But it’s nice to not be immersed in that weird classist posturing.
Lost in Three Pines 
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