I cringed from the other side of the Paulist bookstore tucked in a building full of religious goods shops behind the Cathedral in Mexico City. The increasingly insistent tone came from a woman from the United States, no doubt, one in need of el baño - the bathroom. I glanced around, hoping someone – anyone - anyone but me, that is – would come to her aid.

"Why can’t he understand 'BANNO'? Where is the banno here? Excuse me, do YOU know where the banno is located?" The voices continued, and with a sigh, I closed the book I was leafing through and walked around the shelves toward the commotion. I spoke first to the bookstore employee, cornered by a group of about five women.

"Hola. Entiendo español y ingles." And then to the women, "I understand Spanish and English. Can I help you?" As soon as I opened my mouth, the bookstore employee darted off to a far corner of the store, casting a grateful glance in his wake, but clearly happy to have escaped the situation. No matter - they'd already released him, sensing tastier meat in front of them.

The woman in front of me was in her late 50s or early 60s, wearing rather expensive clothes and gold jewelry. All five had on plastic nametags with their names printed right above one phrase, "Yo No Hablo Español" – "I don’t speak Spanish", and then the name of a religious pilgrimage company.  I mentally noted the company's name, to avoid ever going on a trip where I'd be forced to wear any sort of "If lost, drop in the mail and return to..." label.

"Yes. Where is the banno, and why couldn’t that man tell me how to find it?"

An impromptu Spanish language pronunciation lesson would clearly have been an exercise in futility. Instead, I explained that the bathrooms in Mexico City were often labeled "sanitarios". The bathrooms in that building - with a big "WC" sign as well as a smaller "Sanitarios" indicator as well - were up a couple of flights of stairs on the 2nd floor. "Oh, I don’t want to have to go upstairs. Why don’t they have an elevator? That sounds like the third floor, anyway, not the second."

Ah, but in Mexico, the ground floor isn’t counted – the 1st floor is what would be the second floor here. Not a big deal, of course – as long as my compatriot could find what she needed. She could look for the word "Baño" on any floor in that building and never find what she sought.

"Do they have toilet paper in the banno in this building? We went somewhere today where we had to pay to get just a handful of squares of toilet paper. I simply won’t pay for toilet paper in a public banno. That's just ridiculous." I tried to explain that the toilet paper cost just 3 pesos, at which point one of her companions interjected that the Mexicans were just trying to gouge Americans. While minutes earlier I'd wished for someone else who spoke English to come to their aid, at that moment I was so very happy that nobody else in the vicinity could understand the woman's disparaging comment. In fact, glancing around I noticed that although the store was quite crowded, the locals had left a good three meter distance between themselves and our little cluster of people.

For the first time (and ultimately the only time) on my trip, I felt very out of place, very isolated, and very alone. I'm not Mexican, and never will be even if I ultimately end up living in Mexico. But y'know, I'm not one of them either - or am I?

I wasn't enjoying those uncomfortable thoughts one bit. But - I'd done my due diligence, I'd given directions in English to the bathrooms, even offering to share some pesos if they needed them to purchase toilet paper. Wishing them a safe trip, I turned toward the books I'd been eying before the interruption.

"Oh, so you've found English books! Good. I knew they had to be here somewhere."

Now there's a word that's commonly used in two very specific contexts: the criminal justice system, and among people of a particular evangelical bent. The word - conviction. Those two meanings converged for me in an instant. I was doomed - but I also knew precisely what I was being called to do. Wasn't happy about it, no - not at all - but I also saw no other way out of the situation I was in in that little bookstore. It was an experience I'd have to live through, and it was Starting. Right. NOW.

For the next 40 minutes or so, I was a doorway between a country in which I've fallen irrepressively in love on the one hand, and on the other people who, to me, represented some of the very worst traits of the country that for better or worse is my home right now. Of course the bookstore had no English section, no books in English, not even any postcards of the Cathedral.

"They really should sell more things in English. We Americans come here with money, and if they tried to sell more things to us, they'd have more money and would stay in their own country."

I kid you not. Unlike a previous Posada, I'm changing not a single detail here to protect the innocent. For starters, naivete is not synonymous with innocence, and there were no innocents here. No, I felt as if I'd been absorbed - if not ambushed - by the Altar Society presidents from a handful of suburban conservative Catholic parishes. I halfway expected one to declare herself the wife of Bill Donohue. Yeah. It was that bad.

I can't say I'm at all proud of my response to all of this. I knew that I had to stick with them while they were in the collection of stores, and also knew that they'd probably not let me get away, even if I tried. One of the women did chat a bit - "Where are you from?"  I'm from Oregon.  Long pause. "Oh." I talked about Kid Pax, which was met with some vaguely uncomfortable glances - what sort of wanton woman would leave a nine year old child at home so she could travel alone? And ... what of my husband?   :) Faces brightened when I explained that yes, my child is in parochial school, and that his dad's a wonderful parent, and that my trip this time was to prepare to bring him back for several weeks in the summer.

"Oh my goodness! You'd bring a child here?!? Does he speak Spanish too?" I told them about the great Spanish class he has at his wonderful school, and how we do things like use ATMs in Spanish, go through the self-service checkout at the store in Spanish, and yes - take every opportunity to communicate in Spanish rather than English. This was clearly a very unsettling discussion, and feeling a bit (ok, a lot) passive-aggressive, I continued in that vein, explaining why we live in a diverse area, and why it's so important to me that he be bilingual. "The United States is not an English-only culture, and trying to legislate that would be about as successful as Prohibition was."

Lead balloons don't fly. There was a brief silence, then "Well, if we have to have everything in Spanish now in the United States, the least they could do is make it easier for us to get by in English here."

I'd really like to be able to report that we had a great discussion about that, about how my friend Maria comes by my house sometime with papers that she can't read. Her son's a year younger than the Kid, and he has had to deal with way too much grownup stuff, simply because he is the only one in the family who can read any English. He is always having to translate for his parents. We could've talked about the anxiety that many of my Latina friends face when they talk to white people. Some of us are kind; some of us treat them like they're dirt.

I didn't have that discussion with them. They were too afraid, too out of their element to have been able to hear much of what I had to say. I was also angry enough that I didn't know then whether I could've heard what they were trying to say to me.

Later, walking back from the Zocalo to my little hotel, I thought about all of the things I wish I'd have been able to share with them. I wish they'd have been staying where I was, a small place where a couple of the front desk people speak some English, but everyone else speaks only Spanish. It's the friendliest, most helpful and warm place I know - it feels like 'home'. They could've eaten at the torta place or taqueria, both just up the street, with phenomenally good food at great prices. The best orange juice I've ever had is at a little street stand across the street from the hotel. Even the subway is a lot of fun - and a trip anywhere at all in the city, no matter how many transfers or how far away, costs but two pesos. (About $.18.)

All of these experiences are wonderful parts of being in Mexico. But yes, they're all hard to experience if one is too busy bemoaning all of the things that are not like they are in the US. So many of their complaints were about how Mexico City wasn't enough like the United States, but would they be able to grasp why Mexicans have difficulty adjusting to the United States being unlike Mexico?

On my walk home, I fantasized about staying past my entry paper date, thus making me "illegal" in Mexico. I thought about my first night in town, when I'd become hopelessly lost trying to get from a church where I'd attended an evening Mass back to my hotel. It didn't occur to me to be frightened to stop and ask a policeman for directions, and he didn't ask to see my passport or proof that I was in Mexico legally.

But we didn't have those discussions in the store. Instead, I helped them find little books that had La Misa (the Mass) in Spanish. They evidently had secured the services of an English-speaking priest for most of their services, but they were going to attend at least one or two regular Masses with the masses. The little prayer books (cost - less than $2) would help them get through the rhythms and flow of the sacred ritual that bound them to me, and all of us to so many people in Mexico. The Mass is the Mass, and for Catholics it transcends all of the silliness like borders and passports and languages and such. Or it can - if we're willing to let go of our fears and prejudices.

So they chose a few little books - in Spanish - and I walked them through the process of having their purchases itemized and bagged, then taking a receipt to a Caja (cashier) window to pay, and then return with the receipt to a central table, where the staff worker miraculously matched up the right bag with its receipt, every time. "This process is silly! It doesn't make any sense at all!"

Ah, maybe not. But y'know, this idea of a line on a map separating people into separate 'nations' doesn't make a lot of sense to me, frankly. Or the idea that what we call our bathrooms, how we order our food, or the words we use to celebrate our faith really matters at all - same thing. We're all just people, trying to make our way through this 'life' thing as best we can. Perhaps if we can let go of all of the other differences - the doors that we close to keep others out and ourselves in - in what, even? - we might catch a glimmer of grace and understanding this Christmas.

"Are there any stores here that might sell little souvenirs or statues?"

I directed them to a store down at the other end of the building where I was able to give them the name of a guy who spoke a little bit of English who would be there. "He has the name of an angel!" Yes, he does, and he's a really nice guy, too. I prayed that he'd be a forgiving angel, given the whirlwind I was about to send his way.

God who is without borders, without language, without flag, let us pause in our confusion and uncertainty. Tonight we pray* - help us to let go of anything that keeps us from seeing You in each other's face. Help us walk beyond our fears and prejudices, especially when those biases are against the very ones who are most fearful. May we see ourselves reflected in their lives and hold them with compassion as well.

La paz y Amen

(*Meditate, hold in good and active thought)