By Robert Blakslee
I’ve been living in Mexico for quite some time now. Life is good; my city is safe, rent is cheap, I like the food and it’s cheap too. But always and forever, in ways both obvious and subtle, I’m a foreigner, an eternal visitor. The only time I’ve been taken for a Mexican, to my knowledge, I was at a bar. It was very loud, so the girl mustn’t have heard my accent very clearly, and when I mentioned something about being an American (‘gringo’), she said something to the tune of, “Huh, you’re American? I thought you were just super ‘fresa’.” ‘Fresa’ literally means strawberry in Spanish, but in Mexico it means something like preppy, spoiled, and out of touch with reality. At the time I didn’t know this and thought she was saying I was very red.
But to be honest, as a foreigner I…
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