It could be that I don’t get out enough, but I’m seeing a serious lack of rudeness here in Guadalajara.  The people I come in contact with greet me with a “buenos dias,” hold doors open for me, say “gracias” if I hold one open for them, and sit at tables in restaurants by my two grandkids under four without sending us dirty looks. 

I haven’t had a single person cut in front of me in line at Oxxo or try to sneak in too many items in the fast lanes at Walmart. No group of teens has pushed me off a sidewalk, no one has needed to be shushed at the movie theater, and everyone I’ve smiled at on the street has smiled back. At a recent birthday party I attended, there were even whole tables of people talking to each other, with no cell phones in sight.

I don’t know what to make of it. This is a city for goodness sakes. Millions of anonymous people crowded together trying to get through their days and get from place to place. The quintessential formula for rudeness.

Yet, nothing. Even when I’ve gone out looking for it, the best I’ve come up with is a tendency not to pick up dog waste and the occasional motorcycle venturing onto the sidewalk, which I give a pass since they might be bringing my dinner. 

It’s not like there aren’t opportunities.

A  lot of the mall parking lots charge you to park. And sometimes, like happened to my daughter, your ticket gets wet and clogs up the machine when there’s a line of people behind you.

In the U.S. there would be grumbling, people not so subtly glancing at their watches, making her feel that it was her fault that her ticket got wet (which it was). But not here. Everyone stood around patiently without complaint. 

If there’s a traffic accident, even little ones, both cars have to stay in the road until  someone shows up and determines fault. I saw one last week – a mini-van sideswiped a truck that was towing a a flat bed. Two lanes of traffic were backed up for four blocks. And not a single person was honking. 

It’s like silencers are put on all the cars when they cross the border. I haven’t been honked at once in the six months I’ve been here. In the United States, it was pretty much a daily occurrence. 

It’s just one of the things that makes me know I’m in a foreign country. A little like when I declined to take a flyer from one of the street vendors yesterday. He still said, “gracias.” 

Daily reminders that I’m not in Kansas anymore.