Chapter 8: Mexico City Adventure
A few weeks later, Kike, Adalid and I went to Mexico City so that Adalid could take her university entrance exam. She had asked us if we would accompany her it the big scary city.
Actually, it happened more like this: after classes Kike and the however many girls sit around a big table making ceramics or stained glass stuff, chatting. When I have nothing else to do I sit in and learn Spanish trying to talk to them. But this time the girls who are not subtle have decided that Adalid should be my girlfriend, so they are forcibly pushing her towards me (both figuratively and sometimes literally). Kike, who is more subtle, heard that she wanted to go to the MC, and since he has relatives there he volunteered himself and myself, thinking it would be a good idea to get the two of us together, away from the other girls.
I understood all this but since Adalid was cool, I didn’t figure it would be a problem. Actually I thought it would be pretty fun. I turned out to be right about both. I was also very glad to see that Kike was up for our first real adventure, and it seemed he was glad I was up for it too.
So we went. As we were on the bus, I had the sweetest idea.
“Kike, I have the sweetest idea. Maybe the best idea I’ve ever had. When this weekend is over, remind me to tell you what it is.” He looked at me strangely, and nodded.
We took at taxi from the bus station to Kike’s aunt and uncle’s apartment, which is in a great location right near downtown (Everyone calls his uncle “Tio” and his aunt “Tia” - “uncle” and “aunt” - and that is what I got to call them too. It’s like I have more new relatives. But they are cool like that, so it’s not a problem). From the first second there with them, it was fantastic.
First, I got my first cheek to cheek kiss from his attractive cousin. I still don’t get this much at all, but it’s hot. I kind of want to go to some country where they kiss you on both cheeks. That’s even hotter. Second, his Tia is a great big wonderful loving woman a lot like my Aunt Sarah is. She sat me down and asked me a million questions that I struggled through. The whole family – Tia and Tio, the older daughter Areceli with her two young sons, the middle sister Ana, and the younger brother Omar all came in and shook my hand and met Adalid and hugged Kike and were attentively listening and helping me through difficult sentences. Adalid did some good translating because she had already heard these questions asked in earlier classes back in Las Rosas.
They were thrilled to have us. They immediately took me out to all the places that white people without a posse should probably not be, and got to do all the things I have been told not to do. We went to the ghettos and shopping markets where everything is stolen and really cheap (although I bought nothing). Rolling with the family, I never felt worried about anything. I was a little bit nervous when we drove through a barrio and one of Omar’s friends, who had come with us, said, “that house to the right is where you can buy guns. Or grenades. Whatever you want.” There were three guys sitting outside of the house, and I made sure not to look at them.
And I got to drive in downtown Mexico City. Areceli got tired and handed me the keys. How fun! It’s pretty much like driving in Seattle, but with wider roads and I don’t have to pay attention to traffic laws as much. More like traffic suggestions. People had earlier hyped it as the most crazy driving situation in the world. Which is nonsense, at least until they have a few million mosquito-esque scooters flying around, like in Taipei. Expensive mosquitoes that have humans riding them. The only really funny part was that everyone kept giving me directions from the back seat by saying “go there,” or everyone arguing over where to go meanwhile I am driving the wrong direction down a one-way street because there is no signs or anything but luckily the policeman who was driving the correct way moved to the side with hardly a glance so I could continue breaking the law. It was pretty hilarious. At one stoplight along the Reforma, I stop and watch a kid work for money. He lays down a towel on the ground, across the crosswalk, which is filled with shards of glass. He rips off his shirt and falls down across the glass. He gets up and rolls over, laying down on his back. He then hops up and goes around to the cars with his hand out collecting the “cooperacion” for the show. As he passes, a guy with a water bottle filled with diluted soap sprays our window and starts to wash it. “No!” we are yelling at him. The light goes green and I hit the gas, bumping him off the car as I fly into the intersection. The car explodes into chaos.
“No manches!”
“Que perro!”
“Que malo!” Apparently all are impressed with my no nonsense style of driving.
What else? I took the Metro Subway at 7:00 morning by myself. I went to drop off Adalid at her test, which is at a nearby college, and on the way back have the luck of getting on a train car with a bunch of Japanese tourists who attracted the attention of the locals and for the first time I was not interesting to anyone.
The metro is fairly well known as being a place you can get pick pocketed easily. I have heard stories about people holding onto the straps to their camera with it around their neck, only to look down and have the camera gone, cut off with a knife. Or people’s entire luggage just suddenly gone. The only scary story I heard was that sometimes they will bring a knife and on really crowded subway rides, walk around, jab it into you, not to pierce the skin, but enough to make you freeze, and then just take everything out of your pockets. If you make a noise they jab you. And it’s so crowded it’s hard to see. But if you know what you’re doing, the Metro is another really over-hyped experience.
Tia had a great story. She said that a couple months before she was in the Metro on payday. She had taken her “quincena” and put it in her bra, like most ladies do on payday. She was getting off the subway behind an old man, when she spotted a bag laying on the ground. The old man picked it up and exclaims, only to look around hoping not to have attracted attention.
“Did you see this too?” he asks Tia.
“Um, I saw that it was on the ground. I saw you pick it up. That’s all.”
“It’s filled with money.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Since you saw it too, I would be fine with splitting it with you. Here, put it in your purse before someone mugs us.” So she delightedly puts it in her purse. They are chatting about how they are going to deal with it when a lady comes up to them.
“Have you seen a brown bag here? It must have fallen and I need it.” Tia says she looks like a rich lady, but is about to give it back when the old man speaks up. He tells the woman that they haven’t seen anything, but that they feel really bad for her. He says that maybe Tia can give the woman something to help out, just to get by. He pats Tia on the shoulder and motions to not open the purse, but to take money out of her bra. He is just assuming she has money there, but he is right. So she takes out her bimonthly earnings and gives it to her.
“I hope that can help,” the man says. The woman turns and leaves. He signs in relief and tells Tia that he trusts her and that she should meet him back here the next day with his half of the money. The man then leaves and Tia nervously walks up the stairs to the street level.
She takes her purse into the nearest bathroom, opens up the bag, and sees that it is completely full of newspaper and nothing else. What a sting.
I used the taxis to get myself to church Sunday morning all alone too. No one else wanted to go with me. A respectable adventure, venturing out into the city for the first time by myself (not counting the solo subway).
We did get to go to Garibaldi, a sweet park filled with Mariachi bands. They range from full 10 piece orchestras to a single guy with a drum and a plastic bottle that he blows into. My favorite was a father who played the guitar and his two sons who played the ukulele and the electric harp. It was awesome. We chose mostly to walk around and listen to songs other people were paying for. It is near enough to Tia and Tio’s, near the Alameda park, that we just walked there. In fact, they live within walking distance of most of the touristy sites: the Palacio de Bellas Artes that contains many famous murals including a Rivera, the museum of Diego Rivera itself which is on the opposite side of the park from Bellas Artes, down to the Zocolo to see the huge Catedral Metropolitano, the Presidencia where the president resides which also contains a Rivera mural, the Templo Mayor, the headstone temple of the Aztecs. A lot of things I had seen before on a previous trip when I was younger, but it was fun to see them in a new way. With Kike, his cousins and friends, we also got to see a large piece of city life as well. We talked to the people painting temporary tattoos in the center, and down to the shops of cheap goods in Barrio Colombia or Tepito or Brazil. Curious strangers wanting to know why my eyebrows are blonde but my hair brown. Sidewalk vendors selling tacos or tortas, willing to tell stories that I only half understand. Even just being with Kike’s family was a blast. His younger Cousin Ana is a real city girl – short hair, hip clothes that cut low and ride low and flair out, a man hater but in love with all the boys. Cousin Omar is the same but more easy going. He gels up his hair and streaks it back. He loves going without a shirt even though he is quite skinny. He loves chains and crosses and piercings (although he has none) and tattoos (neither). His older cousin Arecelia, or “Are” (pronounced “Ar-eh” strong on the first syllable) is much more down to earth. She has two kids but no husband, as he is (was) a younger guy who knocked her up twice and then took off. Kike says someday we are going go hunt him down and beat him up. Are runs a little stand in a better part of the bad part of town, where she sells fashionable girls clothes. It provides for her needs and those of her kids. Actually a few years later he would come back and beat her up. Omar would get a posse of his own and took care of business.
But the two kids may be the highlight. They are hysterical even though they can hardly talk. Carlo is the older, at four years old. His uncle Omar and Aunt Ana teach him to wear stylish clothes, gel his hair back, not cry, be strong, and don’t back down from anything. But he is so tiny. The younger is Itsael, whose head is shaped like a football. You can put your hand over it sideways completely from ear to ear. It’s a good thing there aren’t stitches on…um…anyway... They chased balloons all over the square, ask if they can bring home baby chicks that have been spray painted crazy blue and pink and yellow colors, and fight like normal brothers do. It takes all of us taking turns entertaining them or carrying them or holding their hands or taking them to go to the bathroom in the middle of the street or everything. I love every minute.
Across the street from Tia and Tio’s apartment is a little hole-in-the-wall comic book store, which was something I wouldn’t have expected to find. I spent an hour browsing through comics I have seen tons of times, but never in Spanish. There was a lot of Spanish-speaking Archie. I’m not sure why, but it was hypnotizing. I couldn’t stop reading them.
Ana and Tia asked me a lot of questions about racism in the US. Interestingly enough, that topic has come up quite frequently. Now the funny thing is that pretty much everyone who asks me thinks there is still a ton of racism in the US (I am not here to debate that claim, but I have not seen very much in my life in the tranquil Pac NW). This question is funny to me only because of the amount of racism that I have felt here against me in small town Mexico in a mere 7 months far outnumbers the amount of times I have seen it in the US. She wanted to know “how much racism is there in the US?” I laughed and made the comparison that it is like corruption in Mexico: it’s probably present, but you don’t see it a lot, and when you do it is usually in the context of talking about police (with a chuckle). She looked at me and said “then you do not understand nor comprehend Mexico still.” There was an awkward pause, and she continued, “corruption exists in every facet of every persons life. I see it on small or large scales numerous times everyday.”
Not holding such a pessimistic view of this country, I thought about it for a while and asked her for examples. She said it came down just to the fact that it has been institutionalized for so long, and that everyone thinks they don’t have enough money to be able to uphold personal ideals except for a small few. To get into such and such school, “una mordida.” To get gas for your house when you want it, to get your electricity fixed, to get a job, to get good grades, to get out of traffic tickets, mordida. To get out of paying taxes, to get out of paying for food permits, to get away with stealing a car, (of course a much larger) mordida.
I thought back to my friends telling me that a police pulls you over, and can give you a 1500 peso ticket, or you can give him a bill and it’s a lot cheaper. For him, he doesn’t have to do the paperwork and take you in or whatever. I thought about how many people pay off the police or government officials, people whom I respect. When someone pays someone else off, who is the guilty party? Doesn’t corruption exist on both ends of that? If I get pulled over and just pull out a 200 peso bill (I have never been pulled over), I am more or less guilty than the policeman who takes it? It doesn’t really seem like you have a choice, that if you don’t pull out the Mr. Bribe things will get much worse for you, but whose responsibility is it to stop the cycle?
Anyway, we debated this point for a while until she stopped, moved her face really close to mine, and said “your eyes are beautiful.” I blushed and got a little angry at this obviously aggressive move to what ends I could not understand. Besides, Adalid was right there.
On the bus home Kike was dozing off. When he was just about to sleep, he mumbled “you were going to tell me what the best idea you’ve ever had was, or something like that. Right?”
Oh yeah!
“I have no clue what I was thinking. I really don’t remember.”
Actually, it happened more like this: after classes Kike and the however many girls sit around a big table making ceramics or stained glass stuff, chatting. When I have nothing else to do I sit in and learn Spanish trying to talk to them. But this time the girls who are not subtle have decided that Adalid should be my girlfriend, so they are forcibly pushing her towards me (both figuratively and sometimes literally). Kike, who is more subtle, heard that she wanted to go to the MC, and since he has relatives there he volunteered himself and myself, thinking it would be a good idea to get the two of us together, away from the other girls.
I understood all this but since Adalid was cool, I didn’t figure it would be a problem. Actually I thought it would be pretty fun. I turned out to be right about both. I was also very glad to see that Kike was up for our first real adventure, and it seemed he was glad I was up for it too.
So we went. As we were on the bus, I had the sweetest idea.
“Kike, I have the sweetest idea. Maybe the best idea I’ve ever had. When this weekend is over, remind me to tell you what it is.” He looked at me strangely, and nodded.
We took at taxi from the bus station to Kike’s aunt and uncle’s apartment, which is in a great location right near downtown (Everyone calls his uncle “Tio” and his aunt “Tia” - “uncle” and “aunt” - and that is what I got to call them too. It’s like I have more new relatives. But they are cool like that, so it’s not a problem). From the first second there with them, it was fantastic.
First, I got my first cheek to cheek kiss from his attractive cousin. I still don’t get this much at all, but it’s hot. I kind of want to go to some country where they kiss you on both cheeks. That’s even hotter. Second, his Tia is a great big wonderful loving woman a lot like my Aunt Sarah is. She sat me down and asked me a million questions that I struggled through. The whole family – Tia and Tio, the older daughter Areceli with her two young sons, the middle sister Ana, and the younger brother Omar all came in and shook my hand and met Adalid and hugged Kike and were attentively listening and helping me through difficult sentences. Adalid did some good translating because she had already heard these questions asked in earlier classes back in Las Rosas.
They were thrilled to have us. They immediately took me out to all the places that white people without a posse should probably not be, and got to do all the things I have been told not to do. We went to the ghettos and shopping markets where everything is stolen and really cheap (although I bought nothing). Rolling with the family, I never felt worried about anything. I was a little bit nervous when we drove through a barrio and one of Omar’s friends, who had come with us, said, “that house to the right is where you can buy guns. Or grenades. Whatever you want.” There were three guys sitting outside of the house, and I made sure not to look at them.
And I got to drive in downtown Mexico City. Areceli got tired and handed me the keys. How fun! It’s pretty much like driving in Seattle, but with wider roads and I don’t have to pay attention to traffic laws as much. More like traffic suggestions. People had earlier hyped it as the most crazy driving situation in the world. Which is nonsense, at least until they have a few million mosquito-esque scooters flying around, like in Taipei. Expensive mosquitoes that have humans riding them. The only really funny part was that everyone kept giving me directions from the back seat by saying “go there,” or everyone arguing over where to go meanwhile I am driving the wrong direction down a one-way street because there is no signs or anything but luckily the policeman who was driving the correct way moved to the side with hardly a glance so I could continue breaking the law. It was pretty hilarious. At one stoplight along the Reforma, I stop and watch a kid work for money. He lays down a towel on the ground, across the crosswalk, which is filled with shards of glass. He rips off his shirt and falls down across the glass. He gets up and rolls over, laying down on his back. He then hops up and goes around to the cars with his hand out collecting the “cooperacion” for the show. As he passes, a guy with a water bottle filled with diluted soap sprays our window and starts to wash it. “No!” we are yelling at him. The light goes green and I hit the gas, bumping him off the car as I fly into the intersection. The car explodes into chaos.
“No manches!”
“Que perro!”
“Que malo!” Apparently all are impressed with my no nonsense style of driving.
What else? I took the Metro Subway at 7:00 morning by myself. I went to drop off Adalid at her test, which is at a nearby college, and on the way back have the luck of getting on a train car with a bunch of Japanese tourists who attracted the attention of the locals and for the first time I was not interesting to anyone.
The metro is fairly well known as being a place you can get pick pocketed easily. I have heard stories about people holding onto the straps to their camera with it around their neck, only to look down and have the camera gone, cut off with a knife. Or people’s entire luggage just suddenly gone. The only scary story I heard was that sometimes they will bring a knife and on really crowded subway rides, walk around, jab it into you, not to pierce the skin, but enough to make you freeze, and then just take everything out of your pockets. If you make a noise they jab you. And it’s so crowded it’s hard to see. But if you know what you’re doing, the Metro is another really over-hyped experience.
Tia had a great story. She said that a couple months before she was in the Metro on payday. She had taken her “quincena” and put it in her bra, like most ladies do on payday. She was getting off the subway behind an old man, when she spotted a bag laying on the ground. The old man picked it up and exclaims, only to look around hoping not to have attracted attention.
“Did you see this too?” he asks Tia.
“Um, I saw that it was on the ground. I saw you pick it up. That’s all.”
“It’s filled with money.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Since you saw it too, I would be fine with splitting it with you. Here, put it in your purse before someone mugs us.” So she delightedly puts it in her purse. They are chatting about how they are going to deal with it when a lady comes up to them.
“Have you seen a brown bag here? It must have fallen and I need it.” Tia says she looks like a rich lady, but is about to give it back when the old man speaks up. He tells the woman that they haven’t seen anything, but that they feel really bad for her. He says that maybe Tia can give the woman something to help out, just to get by. He pats Tia on the shoulder and motions to not open the purse, but to take money out of her bra. He is just assuming she has money there, but he is right. So she takes out her bimonthly earnings and gives it to her.
“I hope that can help,” the man says. The woman turns and leaves. He signs in relief and tells Tia that he trusts her and that she should meet him back here the next day with his half of the money. The man then leaves and Tia nervously walks up the stairs to the street level.
She takes her purse into the nearest bathroom, opens up the bag, and sees that it is completely full of newspaper and nothing else. What a sting.
I used the taxis to get myself to church Sunday morning all alone too. No one else wanted to go with me. A respectable adventure, venturing out into the city for the first time by myself (not counting the solo subway).
We did get to go to Garibaldi, a sweet park filled with Mariachi bands. They range from full 10 piece orchestras to a single guy with a drum and a plastic bottle that he blows into. My favorite was a father who played the guitar and his two sons who played the ukulele and the electric harp. It was awesome. We chose mostly to walk around and listen to songs other people were paying for. It is near enough to Tia and Tio’s, near the Alameda park, that we just walked there. In fact, they live within walking distance of most of the touristy sites: the Palacio de Bellas Artes that contains many famous murals including a Rivera, the museum of Diego Rivera itself which is on the opposite side of the park from Bellas Artes, down to the Zocolo to see the huge Catedral Metropolitano, the Presidencia where the president resides which also contains a Rivera mural, the Templo Mayor, the headstone temple of the Aztecs. A lot of things I had seen before on a previous trip when I was younger, but it was fun to see them in a new way. With Kike, his cousins and friends, we also got to see a large piece of city life as well. We talked to the people painting temporary tattoos in the center, and down to the shops of cheap goods in Barrio Colombia or Tepito or Brazil. Curious strangers wanting to know why my eyebrows are blonde but my hair brown. Sidewalk vendors selling tacos or tortas, willing to tell stories that I only half understand. Even just being with Kike’s family was a blast. His younger Cousin Ana is a real city girl – short hair, hip clothes that cut low and ride low and flair out, a man hater but in love with all the boys. Cousin Omar is the same but more easy going. He gels up his hair and streaks it back. He loves going without a shirt even though he is quite skinny. He loves chains and crosses and piercings (although he has none) and tattoos (neither). His older cousin Arecelia, or “Are” (pronounced “Ar-eh” strong on the first syllable) is much more down to earth. She has two kids but no husband, as he is (was) a younger guy who knocked her up twice and then took off. Kike says someday we are going go hunt him down and beat him up. Are runs a little stand in a better part of the bad part of town, where she sells fashionable girls clothes. It provides for her needs and those of her kids. Actually a few years later he would come back and beat her up. Omar would get a posse of his own and took care of business.
But the two kids may be the highlight. They are hysterical even though they can hardly talk. Carlo is the older, at four years old. His uncle Omar and Aunt Ana teach him to wear stylish clothes, gel his hair back, not cry, be strong, and don’t back down from anything. But he is so tiny. The younger is Itsael, whose head is shaped like a football. You can put your hand over it sideways completely from ear to ear. It’s a good thing there aren’t stitches on…um…anyway... They chased balloons all over the square, ask if they can bring home baby chicks that have been spray painted crazy blue and pink and yellow colors, and fight like normal brothers do. It takes all of us taking turns entertaining them or carrying them or holding their hands or taking them to go to the bathroom in the middle of the street or everything. I love every minute.
Across the street from Tia and Tio’s apartment is a little hole-in-the-wall comic book store, which was something I wouldn’t have expected to find. I spent an hour browsing through comics I have seen tons of times, but never in Spanish. There was a lot of Spanish-speaking Archie. I’m not sure why, but it was hypnotizing. I couldn’t stop reading them.
Ana and Tia asked me a lot of questions about racism in the US. Interestingly enough, that topic has come up quite frequently. Now the funny thing is that pretty much everyone who asks me thinks there is still a ton of racism in the US (I am not here to debate that claim, but I have not seen very much in my life in the tranquil Pac NW). This question is funny to me only because of the amount of racism that I have felt here against me in small town Mexico in a mere 7 months far outnumbers the amount of times I have seen it in the US. She wanted to know “how much racism is there in the US?” I laughed and made the comparison that it is like corruption in Mexico: it’s probably present, but you don’t see it a lot, and when you do it is usually in the context of talking about police (with a chuckle). She looked at me and said “then you do not understand nor comprehend Mexico still.” There was an awkward pause, and she continued, “corruption exists in every facet of every persons life. I see it on small or large scales numerous times everyday.”
Not holding such a pessimistic view of this country, I thought about it for a while and asked her for examples. She said it came down just to the fact that it has been institutionalized for so long, and that everyone thinks they don’t have enough money to be able to uphold personal ideals except for a small few. To get into such and such school, “una mordida.” To get gas for your house when you want it, to get your electricity fixed, to get a job, to get good grades, to get out of traffic tickets, mordida. To get out of paying taxes, to get out of paying for food permits, to get away with stealing a car, (of course a much larger) mordida.
I thought back to my friends telling me that a police pulls you over, and can give you a 1500 peso ticket, or you can give him a bill and it’s a lot cheaper. For him, he doesn’t have to do the paperwork and take you in or whatever. I thought about how many people pay off the police or government officials, people whom I respect. When someone pays someone else off, who is the guilty party? Doesn’t corruption exist on both ends of that? If I get pulled over and just pull out a 200 peso bill (I have never been pulled over), I am more or less guilty than the policeman who takes it? It doesn’t really seem like you have a choice, that if you don’t pull out the Mr. Bribe things will get much worse for you, but whose responsibility is it to stop the cycle?
Anyway, we debated this point for a while until she stopped, moved her face really close to mine, and said “your eyes are beautiful.” I blushed and got a little angry at this obviously aggressive move to what ends I could not understand. Besides, Adalid was right there.
On the bus home Kike was dozing off. When he was just about to sleep, he mumbled “you were going to tell me what the best idea you’ve ever had was, or something like that. Right?”
Oh yeah!
“I have no clue what I was thinking. I really don’t remember.”
posted by Patrick McEvoy at 11:49 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home