Chilango

I'm slowly working out where I am.  There are a number of forgettable large arterial roads that criss-cross Mexico City, all of which are lined with the sort of soulless buildings that quickly erase themselves from the memory or else cause your mind to avoid them altogether.  However, just a block off of my own personal intercity super-highway, Insurgentes, the cinderblock structures give way to more sturdy neighborhoods.  Cracked streets turn to tree lined avenues.  Avenues converge at lush parks with elaborate european fountains, which in turn are surrounded by crowded cafés serving culture as much as coffees.  It is easy to dismiss DF as just another enormous and polluted environmental disaster, but such an assessment ignores the seeds of city aspiring to grow into something better.  A closer look reveals roof-top gardens and people pushing for social change that will influence the rest of the nation.  It is a place that is so undeniably international yet absolutely Mexican.  A crepe is just as likely to come with blue cheese and walnuts as it is with queso oaxaca (string cheese) and nopales, sautéed cactus.  It is not easy here, but if you have the energy, what you will find is worth the effort.  

Jumil

Although it is 28 degrees and fair, it is Christmas in Taxco as surely as anywhere else.  Where people once sold onions and tomatoes there are now stands filled with flashing lights, plastic Santas, singing animals, and the obligatory themed candies.  A plastic ponderosa pine forest has been steadily growing from the market's center, each day the mint colored trees creep even further along the streets, forming a vast evergreen forest disrupted only occasionally by their white plastic cousins and stands selling pirated DVDs. 

As best I can tell the first seeds were planted near the deli section, however, things tend to catch on quickly around here, so it is hard to be certain.  If it isn't rudely bleached jeans or an animal flu that occupies the public mind, it is most assuredly a seasonal holiday or food. 

Last months hot item was the Jumil, pronounced “who-meal.”  A beetle so disgusting people get two days off of work to celebrate it.  This spotted pest appears in the nearby mountains in the autumn and for the next several weeks makes up an important part of the Tasqueño diet.  Like all things local, both the producer and consumer believe it is the best.  Let's face it, if Vegemite, Green Chili Wine, or deep-fried turkeys stuffed with chicken and duck were actually the best, they would enjoy more widespread popularity.  As it is, they are mostly favored by people who grew up with them or, at the very least, tolerated for fear of not fitting in.  The same is true of the Jumil. 

Rainy Season

There is a flash of light followed by stillness.  For a moment time stretches on in a white void and for this infinitely short life you are alone.  Suddenly the world recolors itself and is punctuated by a clap of thunder that nearly sweeps you off your feet.  The rain arrives in drops so fat that even with an umbrella the splashes off the ground can soak a person up to their waist.  When it really gets going it tumbles with persistent and admirable intensity until the streets turn to rivers and pedestrians into climate refugees.  It rains cats and dogs, lions and lambs, fish and bicycles.  Every cliché ever spoken falls from the sky and is washed away with the cigarette butts and dog shit of the sidewalks. 

The culture dictates that any location other than your home is appropriate for affection and the rainy season does not change this simple law.  On such occasions eager lovers seek shelter anywhere possible, taking advantage of yet another opportunity for a public fondle.  Unfortunately, it is not unusual for a small stoop to breed an awkward third-wheel type situation.  Like a car accident, you try not to look, but with so much heavy breathing and wet sucking sounds it is all you can do not to get involved or else throw yourself into the deluge.  The best coping mechanism is to imagine that some of these people are simply strangers making the most of the bad weather, or else, first dates that are going really well. 

The good thing about these storms is that they do not last long.  There is light and sound and romance, but after fifteen minutes the world resumes its regular business.  People smile at each other and laugh at their wet shoes.  People emerge from sheltered nooks with disheveled hair and looks of disappointment.  The city is washed clean and we set out tentatively, like explorers of a new planet.

Robbed

When moving to Mexico City they say it is not a question of if you will be robbed, but when.  It's a sort of initiation, much like a candle-light bris or first sexual encounter.  The best you can hope for is that it will be over quickly and that nobody ends up traumatized or seriously injured.  For me, like earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, I knew that the possibility was there, but figured I would be out of the city fast enough to beat any of the odds that might await me.  That said, on a cool September night, the odds won and this boy became a Chilango.

On the night in question, a friend and I were walking home through the back streets of La Roma.  We had just suffered through a rather unsavory dinner and were silently pondering whether going hungry wasn't the better option.  Not far from my house, a man called out to us, “Just want to get your attention, don't want to be surprising you!”  He approached us from the other side of the road and explained that he wanted to announce his presence so we wouldn't be scared and mistake him for a thief.  The man wore clean, tailored clothes, consisting of a button-up shirt tucked into baggy slacks.  He may have even looked respectable were the outfit not two or three sizes too large.  Upon arriving to our side of the road, he informed us that it was a robbery, but would like to do so in the nicest way possible.  He lifted the extra fabric of his large shirt to bring our attention toward an amorphous bulge tucked into his belt.  “I have a gun, and I am robbing you.”  He did indeed have something concealed in there, but it was just as likely to be a box of macaroni and cheese as the pistol that he claimed it to be.  Nevertheless, he was the one with the bulge and who were we to question it.

METRO

There is often a large puddle, a breast feeding indigenous women, an antique watch, or a new DVD to bypass at the entrance of the metro.  A woman shrieks to sell her chorros, a deep-fried okra-shaped piece of dough covered in cinnamon and sugar, sometimes tasty but usually dry and hard.  The man next to her sells a generous breakfast pack including a sandwich, yogurt, banana and juice.  He is cool and quiet but offers a good product.  Many in this country could take this lesson to heart and realize that no amount of noise making will sell a product like a good reputation.  But, no doubt, they will continue to try.  

Descending the well worn marble stairs I pat my pockets to make sure the day is in order.  Keys-right.  Money-left.  It is probably a false sense, but I feel very much a local as I swipe the metro card and push through the turnstile.  At least much more so than Amelia, who fumbles to separate a single ticket from the thick bundle buried in her purse.  Were we at a Chuckie Cheese, such a clump would be enough to buy an RC car or a Chicago Bulls beach towel, but as it is, so many tickets can only cause delays.  For all that, my brief smugness is quickly extinguished with the arrival of the train.  During peak hours, the foremost carriages are reserved for women and children, with the remaining going to the vast majority of morning and evening commuters, sweaty men.  As Amelia steps on board and takes a seat, I force myself into the chest of a business man and suck in my stomach to allow the doors to close.  Sometimes the train can remain stationary for minutes as doors open and close, all the while banging on arms, legs, briefcases, and backpacks.  When at last we begin moving, a wave of warmth washes over the passengers, settling on faces and dampening clothes.  It is the collective heat of hundreds of people, it smells like corn and it makes handrails moist and sticky.  After a couple of stops I jostle myself to the back of the crowd, where at least there is a chance of not being washed overboard by the tides of exiting commuters.  From this vantage I can enjoy the metro culture as it unfolds before me. 

Jueves y Viernes Santo

Not to be confused with Sabado Gloria, which used to be everyone's favorite and involved a city-wide water fight until the water crisis put an end to the fun, Thursday and Friday are the most important as well as serious days of the holiday.  As the sun sets on Thursday night it feels like any other day of the year, except that Taxco is exceptionally quiet.  There are none of the daily cohuetes, noisy fireworks without a burst of color, nor is there any of the usual Volkswagen noise on the streets, in fact, the only real sound is that of distant drumming. 

Walking to the town center the drumming still remains distant, but families are now milling about the streets with folding chairs and flavored ice treats, probably consisting of too-sweet fruit syrups and a healthy dose of chili powder.  Children are dressed extraordinarily well, wearing small suits or high-collared white jackets with pearl buttons, the youngest with snowy angel wings spreading out from their backs.  In many ways it is very much a festival atmosphere, vendors setting up stands along the roads and people selling food or bathroom service out of their homes.  All of the usual suspects are there, the noisy chicken toy, the large pencil-shaped balloons, glow-in-the-dark bracelets and helicopter sticks, kazoos, and colorful airplanes attached to a string.  The only evidence that this isn't Carnival is that among the usual wares there are also small, thorny, wooden crosses complete with a GI-Joe-sized Christ.

Semana Santa

Taxco is known for two things, silver and Semana Santa. The first is abundant year round and quickly goes unnoticed. The second, is a two week Easter celebration culminating with two days of somber processions. It is a holiday in which people momentarily forget about the Virgin of Guadalupe and focus on the boss, Jesus.  During this time the town is at its best and everyone works hard to prepare for the inevitable onslaught of tourism.  Even the enormous jacarandas are in full bloom, as are the bougainvilleas whose papery flowers can be caught climbing up walls and sneaking into windows when no one is looking. Taken together, nature has given Taxco's conservative white and terracotta a touch of much needed color.

Meanwhile, the churches are busy cleaning a years worth of dust and wax from their crucified Christs, while also restoring his suffering with thick coats of carmine paint. In a few short days these wooden messiahs will be parading the steep cobbled streets of the town on backs, in carts, and no doubt surfed rock-star style over masses of the devoted. Though playing lesser roles, many of the town's mannequins are being pulled from windows to be reinvented as apostles or the Virgin Mary herself, often with a rather confusing result. The same perfectly proportioned body that only yesterday wore a sequin mini-skirt or a gold one-piece swim suit is now being paraded about as the mother of Jesus.

Lagunas De Chacauhua

Our wait is compounded by the oppressive humid air, each warm gulp threatening to drown us. This is the second of four transfers we will make today, a process that inflates our two hour trip into three or even four. Rather than give in to agitation, we slowly work our way through a bag of mandarines, which, like the air, is a combination of drinking and eating. Between slices we focus on our breathing. We have grown accustomed to this wait in the crossroads town of Rio Grande, as it serves as the hub between Puerto Escondido and Parque Nacional Lagunas de Chacahua. In future visits we will discover a vegetarian burrito van, goat tacos, and high speed internet, all travelers companions which help to pass the time. However, on this occasion, we sit idly, dustily, and silently.

You Can Bring Your Girlfriends...

The Hotel-Motel is nestled inconspicuously on a quiet pedestrian street lined with bridal shops. A quick consultation of the pillows will inform you that the establishment is called Hotel Independencia, whereas the towels quite clearly attest to the name Motel Mirage. Either way, it is sensational value. The location is central, practically inside Guadalajaras grand Cathedral, and the price is right. A mere twelve dollars per night, a price that the man at the desk could hardly believe himself. Both guidebooks and friends had told us such a room would be around twenty dollars a night. What's more, the cleaners work as if possessed, racking up what seems to be a rotating 24 hour shift. 

Some would attribute this discovery to luck, but I am inclined to credit our finely honed travel skills, a sort of sixth sense for good deals. Never before have I been so elated with a discovery and as Amelia and I slip into bed on the first night we laugh deep belly laughs at the fools of the city. We also pause a moment to admire our graceful forms in an enormous wall mirror adjacent to the bed. We haven't seen anyone all day, but the other guests slowly trickle in, their shoes clicking on the tile floors. At last sleep comes with the vague sound of our neighbors showering before going out for the night. As I drift away, a final tappity-tap even penetrates my dreams.