Showing posts with label Mexico City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mexico City. Show all posts

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Abuelitos in Mexico!


My friend Pete, who is smarter than me, wrote me after my last blog to say, "Hey, this is good shit, but I wonder how many people manage to finish reading them when they are so long. Why not issue them in smaller installments." So, I'm going to try that this time. If I get more feedback from people saying this helped them read them and enjoy them, then I'll make it a new thing. If not, then Pete doesn't know shit. I wrote this blog while on a tour of Baja California Sur, a truly amazing place. Mexico is so diverse and incredible. Don't know if I'll squeeze in a blog about that trip, but I'll surely have pictures of it (as I already do of my parents visit) posted at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157622745419733/show/ Check 'em out!


My parents came to visit us last month. At the October/November Cusp. Day of the Dead/Halloween. All that. Not that this is why they came then. I needed to use the last three days of my “paternity” leave before November 1st. So, that’s when I told them to come on down. Of course, I’ve been telling them to “come on down” pretty much since I’ve been here. (You know, like for my wedding.) But, circumstances (read: global financial crisis and housing sales slump) and a longstanding provincial attitude about international travel kept them from responding to the invitations. Enter Miguel Alberto. The little guy had only been on the planet for a month and a half and he already had my parents buying plane tickets to Mexico. Well done, Son. I didn’t really care what had pushed them over the edge. I was simply ecstatic that my rents would finally be joining us in Mexico to get a first hand view of our lives. It’s weird that I care so much. At what age do you stop wanting your parents to be proud of you? I know I’m not an old man, but the signs indicate that I am getting “older”—the eyesight is failing, the libido is not as chipper as it once was, the recovery time after intense physical workouts is longer. (The recovery time after intense partying, however, seems to be lessening—this is probably a bad sign.) At any rate, at 43 years old I was totally stoked that Mike and Louanne would be visiting us and I counted the days down until their arrival.

Of course, looking back, it's clear that my enthusiasm got the better of me; I took them on a whirlwind tour that left my mother barely able to catch the flight home to NJ. Of course, she didn’t arrive in the best of shape either. My mother and some of her other siblings suffer from a rare condition that causes fainting at times. I can remember my uncle Patrick (the eighth of eight children, and thus only a year and a half older than me) sprinting away from the Fourth of July parades whenever the fire engines would approach, blaring their sirens. Apparently, for some reason, that would kick off his fainting spells. And I can also remember my aunt Margie being found passed out on the bathroom floor of my grandparents’ house when I was little. In recent years, my mother has developed additional physical quirks, like occasional migraines and something else that causes her to experience uncontrollable rapid heart beats. (I can’t remember the names for any of this stuff.) Not that any of it happens frequently as far as I understand it, just that it happens, sometimes. My mom is a sweet and fragile person, nothing terrible in that. So, when my parents confessed shortly after arriving in Mexico City on Tuesday night that my mom had passed out on the plane on the way to Mexico and given themselves, and everyone on the plane a good scare, it was not all that shocking of a surprise. But, I probably should have taken heed.

But, I didn’t. And the whirlwind tour commenced immediately after dropping their bags off at the apartment by walking them down the street to the Califa taco place. I’ve shared a lot with my family about the delights of Mexican food and wanted to introduce them right a way. This wasn’t the street tacos that I adore, but Califa is pretty tasty. So, we headed over there and had some tacos al pastor and some gringas shortly after they arrived at our apartment at 11pm. They seemed to enjoy them well enough before we went back home and finally put them to bed in Miguel’s yet occupied room at 1am after a long day of traveling. Oops, that was 3am their time. Sorry guys.

Still, the tour needed to continue (like the Milgram experiement), so the next day we got up and quickly started their personalized walking tour of my surrounding neighborhoods—Hipodromo, Condesa, Roma Norte, Juarez. We hit Buena Tierra for brunch, then Parque Espana and Parque Mexico, the Cibeles and Diana Fountains, Reforma, Little Korea. We did stop for a rest at Cafemania off of Parque Mexico. As we headed home after this long first day, I heard some mention of blisters emerging on their toes and “I haven’t walked this far in a long time.” Oops again. (Did I mention my parents are in their mid-sixties?) Sorry again guys. Well, not sorry enough to not schedule a dinner out at the Lebanese place we like so much with 12 of my closest friends. I really wanted my awesome friends to meet my awesome parents. Of course my folks were slightly subdued for the event, given the 3am bedtime the night before and the ten mile walking tour. Even so, we had a nice time, finishing off the evening by toking on the hooka. My friends got a glimpse of the two people responsible for making me me. Afterwards, I’m certain both my parents were asleep the moment their heads hit their pillows.

But, hey man, there is a lot to see in this great city of mine. So, the next day after breakfast we headed up to Chapultepec Castle, which I’d pointed out to them from my 9th floor apartment windows. After walking up the long steep hill that leads to the castle, we toured the residential portions of former emperors and presidents and headed into the museum portion for some more when my mom suddenly decided she needed some air. Too stuffy, she said. Gee, Mom, sorry about that. Ale went outside to sit with her. My dad and I hurried through the rest of the museum in order to catch up with the girls and Miguel outside.

Still, the day wasn’t over yet. Shoosh, it was only 3 o’clock or so. The show must go on and all that! We drove downtown, after a stop for some street quesadillas, to the Bellas Artes Palace to show them the El Greco exhibit that I’d heard so much about. Ale and I had been dying to see this and had waited specifically for my parents’ visit to finally go. When I heard my mom saying, “who exactly is El Greco again?” it dawned on me that Ale the art buff and me the history buff were perhaps not thinking straight when we set up this part of the itinerary. (Still, it was really cool, set up in the dark with highlight lights on the paintings. Better even than the normal showcase in Toledo, or so I’ve been told.) We left the museum and headed down toward the Zocalo, the huge central plaza of the city. (They assured me their feet were up for the mile walk or so through the old weathered buildings of El Centro.) After taking in the wonders of that mighty plaza, peeking inside the Catedral Metropolitana and taking a gander at the ruins of the original Aztec temples upon which the city is built, we headed over to the La Casa de las Sirenas restaurant and enjoyed some truly fine Mexican cuisine, garlic trout, chile enogada, and mole con pollo. It was on this satisfied note that we headed back to the apartment to put day two in the books. Way to hang in there you two!

Installment II to follow...

Friday, June 26, 2009

Travel in the Time of Swine Flu

So, you’ve heard the reports, you’ve seen the pictures, you’ve pondered the horror—now, a first hand account from a survivor of Swine Flu at viral ground zero: Mexico City.

Of course, it came out of nowhere, as most global catastrophe’s do. It started on Thursday night, just as I was getting into bed. The gospel music on my phone which indicates a new text message began playing. Who could be texting me at 11:30 at night? It was from Tina, and it read: NO SCHOOL TOMORROW BECAUSE OF THE FLU. THIS IS NOT A JOKE. To which I immediately thought: THIS MUST BE SOME KIND OF JOKE! As tantalizing as an unexpected day off from work sounded, I wasn’t about to turn my 6 am alarm off. Then I got a second, very similar, text from Jacky. OK—something is up. But what, a conspiracy to make Miguelito miss work—or something much more sinister? I was too tired to figure it out, so I went to bed.

I still left the alarm on, but decided I would check the website first thing in the morning after it went off. And, low and behold, there was the announcement that school would be closed until further notice due to something called “swine flu.” After checking out more news on the internet it became clear that we were in deep pig shit. A new, virulent, contagious and deadly flu, a mixture of pig-bird-human viruses, was spreading throughout Mexico City like the spirit of death during the Passover in Egypt. A real Hot Zone/Outbreak moment had arrived and we were right in the middle of it.

Fortunately, we were already scheduled to get out of town that weekend for Ale’s brother’s wedding in Torreon, so we gladly jumped on a plane that afternoon and left the deadly virus behind. When we arrived in Torreon, there was (surprisingly) no screening from anyone at the airport but plenty of questions from our family. Already, reports had circulated indicating over fifty fatalities. Luckily for us, they weren’t scared enough to want to quarantine us, they took us home for dinner before dropping us at the hotel.

Now I know I’ve shared with you many times before the many fun and quirky things about living in Latin America. It’s what keeps things “interesting” and me on my toes. So, just a quickie: One of the reasons we booked the hotel was that it had a pool. Torreon lies in the state of Coahuila, in the desert of northern Mexico, which is “hot as hell”—to use a technical meteorological term—meaning “really fucking hot.” So, when I saw the alberca cerrada, “pool closed” sign on the pool door I grew concerned. Torreon is not what you would call a bastion of high culture, unless you consider highly air-conditioned large malls and fast food establishments “high culture.” This town is only about a hundred years old and lacks the colonial plaza and architecture that serves as the main attraction in so many Mexican cities and towns. Being able to sit by the pool, dipping, snoozing and reading was supposed to be a highlight of my weekend. “Hey, is this pool going to be working tomorrow?” I asked. “Umm….let me check…uh, yeah, it will be ready by 10am tomorrow.” But, of course, when I went down the next day to take a swim before I had to get ready for the wedding, I was informed that the pool would be available sometime Monday. They always tell you what you want to hear, rather than deal with a problem

The wedding was in a really cute chapel, and went as well as a Catholic Mass/wedding can go; which is to say I didn’t slit my wrist from listening to a gay guy in a glittery frock giving out wedding advice in a language I barely understand. Since we stayed late taking pictures, then went home to change, we (Ale, her sister and her son Dario, and a friend) finally arrived after all the tables were filled and the food served. So much for the idea of a family table. We managed to get them to set up another table and enjoyed some tasty Mexican staples, including tacos with various fillings and Mexican-style rice. Not exactly your gringo first-choice of wedding fare, but better than many a wedding buffet I’ve endured.

It was indeed “hot as hell” on this Saturday afternoon in Torreon, so I did my best to keep under the shade of the tents, avoided being sucked onto the dance floor for too long at a time and visited the two enormous industrial fan/misters frequently. Despite the heat and the setting—which was sort of a swim club recreation center—it turned into a pretty good party as the sun and the temperatures faded. And true to form, Ale’s parents and their merry group of party friends made sure it lasted to the very end—and beyond. They had brought several bottles of whiskey, vodka and tequila which they drank along with the beer being served by the wait staff. When that ran out I went on a beer run to keep them going. When that ran out, we left the wedding reception (the very last ones to go, I assure you) and headed over to one of their houses to play guitar and drink, eat and smoke some more. Honestly—I couldn’t keep up. After being served a triple sized shot of tequila (and finishing it, OF COURSE) I begged off and went back to the hotel, begrudgingly admitting defeat at the hands of my 6O+ year old in-laws and their bohemian fifty-something friends. Once there, Ale and I split a humongous Carl’s Jr burger and double sized michelada (spicey/Cubana style) we had delivered, before passing out.

It was at the wedding reception that I recieved word that all Mexican schools would be closed for another week and a half. Really!? Cases of the flu continued to rise and now it was showing up in the U.S. WTF was going on? I mean, so far it all seemed unreal and probably overblown, but now I was starting to wonder. Should we even return to the DF? Especially Ale, who was pregnant, and unable to take antibiotics. Hmmm. An obvious choice? Well, this should give you a pretty good idea of how boring Torreon is—when presented with the question of whether or not she should stay—she decided to take her chances in the DF. So, we donned our surgical masks and headed home.

By the time we arrived almost every person in the city was wearing a mask. Though, sadly, many people seemed unclear on how they were supposed to protect them from the virus. For example, some people wore the masks only over their mouth but left their nose exposed. Others wore the mask, only to take if off to be better understood when speaking to others. I saw some who wore the mask in their cars—while riding alone. They didn’t seem to get that the virus was spread in bits of saliva breathed, coughed or sneezed out into the air you breath or onto surfaces you might touch and put into your eyes or mouth. Clearly, not covering both your mouth and nose at all times in public was as good as not wearing the mask at all. And wearing a mask alone was protecting from only yourself, who either already had the flu or not. Duh!

Even though I still suffer from the knee-jerk reaction of immediately loving the idea of unexpected day off (snow day! in NJ), ultimately I am a slave-driving-content-obsessed teacher who wants my kids to learn as much stuff as possible. So, my concerns shifted to school, where I headed on Monday to gather some work and get myself organized for the week and a half off. There too was Will, Marlowe, and Ryan Davidson, who were doing the same. Just as we were getting ready to leave a loud and wailing siren kicked off--?????????. Oh, right, of course, an earthquake. Well, never a dull moment! Later that day I watched the American newscasters report about our day in Mexico City: deadly flu + earthquake. My mother must have been beside herself…

Though Ale was content to work from the safety of our apartment, I knew I’d go stir crazy under those conditions. I was already sick of wearing the annoying mask every time I went outside for fear of bringing the deadly virus home to my wife and unborn kid. When Jim Weathers suggested a trip north to Hidalgo to explore some towns and forests he’d heard about up there, I jumped at the chance to get out of town again.

We hit the road with Jim’s girlfriend Laura and his friend/surrogate Mexican mom, Terri. Heading due north up Insurgentes (the longest avenue in the city, and, some claim, in the world) to the state of Hidalgo which none of us knew much about. We had heard about some little towns with cabanas nearby in natural settings. After being unimpressed with Pachuca, the state capital, we headed into the mountains to discover some quiet colonial, former mining towns. The drive through this region was quite nice. At Mineral del Monte we took the Turibus around the town to the old mines and the graveyard. The graveyard was still reserved for only the Cornish miners who originally worked the mines in the region and their descendants. It really was a lovely little town, but most of it was closed due to the flu. After moving on to even smaller towns and hamlets we did come across some cabana places that looked OK, but we were having trouble finding places that were open. According to them, they had all been shut down by the government as part of the “flu contingency.” We found a couple that were willing to rent to us if we would agree to hide our car around back. OK—fine then, let’s negotiate. You’ve got no business and we don’t want to pay your inflated prices, so let’s talk. Nope. Not a chance. Jim and I moved on, shaking our heads at the apparent lack of business sense.

After driving deep into the forest we came upon a very isolated place that featured ATV rentals and a trout fishing pond next door. These simple, but new/clean, cabins sat on the side of a hill, overlooking a field with sheep. This was perfect—except they too had been told to shut down. Well, with darkness descending we pressed hard for an exception, but our failed negotiations at lowering the price were no longer an obstacle. 900 pesos for the night, as I recall, which was 225 pesos each (about 20 bucks) for a two room cabin in a pristine setting. Not cheap, but not bad.

So, we enjoyed ourselves on the balcony, made some fires, played the guitar and had some beers. We headed into the little colonial town we’d passed through the night before and found one place open for breakfast. Already we were seeing large government produced signs explaining the dangers of this swine flu or “flu porcina” and the many ways to avoid contracting it.

After breakfast we walked around town before moving on to the Chico national forest. Surely the forest is open enough to be open during the pig plague. Guess again. They wouldn’t even let us in the ranger station to get a map or info. So we followed the road straight through the other side of the park where we found another tiny, but extremely charming colonial town, Mineral del Chico. Once again, the flu emergency dominated the experience. Most places closed, barely anyone out and about, and those who were wearing masks and gloves, signs warning of infection everywhere. And this was in the middle of nowhere, we thought, what chaos must be unfolding back in Mexico City? We discussed potential scenarios upon our return that might reflect movies like 28 Days Later, Siolent Green, Escape From New York or Omega Man/I am Legend.

After a walking tour of the town, where we saw signs advertising zip lining and rappelling, we headed up the mountain to find another “campground” featuring cozy cabins. This place, perched on the side of the mountain and sporting an amazing view of the Mineral del Chico in the valley below, boasted hiking trails, communal outdoor grills, picnic tables and paint ball. Awesome! (We are definitely going back to this place with more friends during the next school year.) We got ourselves set up in the cabin and then headed back into town to try to find a restaurant. After all, we had not eaten since breakfast and it was getting late.

Good luck. There were only three restaurants we could locate in this little weekend-home village, and they were all closed. The more we drove around looking for something, the more desperate to find something we became. Just as we were about to settle for crackers from the convenience store, we passed a place that we had seen earlier with a sign saying, solo para llevar, or “take out only.” But, now there was no sign at all and not even a window for us to peer through. Was it even a restaurant? With nothing to lose from knocking on the door, we sent Laura and Terri to do just that. Lo and behold a man answered, first saying they were indeed a restaurant, but that they too were closed. But, they could see people eating inside, so they turned on the charm and sob story, managing to talk our way into this secret refuge of fine food. An underground restaurant! Terri and Laura went in the restaurant while Tim and I parked the car, only to be faced with a dilemma—lock the car and secure the computer and other belongings, or leave the windows down (and doors unlocked) and ensure Toby, Terri’s pug didn’t die from the heat. Tim, being the good friend he is, chose his computer and guitar, leaving Toby to fend for himself. Good luck, little buddy!

(This last for all of about five minutes before he leapt up from the table with a change of heart and rushed to Toby’s rescue.)

The chef/owner was somewhat disheveled, but friendly and warm, even going out into the garden to pick spinach for our salad. We had trout, the house dish plus chiles en nogada, the current special (and a MUST have Mexican dish if you visit). Both were fantastic and we stayed there until dusk, enjoying the view out the back of the restaurant into a lovely garden and the tequila the owner brought over to our table. As the Tequila flowed, so did the Espanglish and the laughter. We had gone from hungry and desperate for anything to the equivalent of a home cooked meal at a friend’s house. A feeling of rightness in the world came over me like…well, like a Tequila buzz, I suppose. We spent a second evening enjoying the smells and sounds of the Mexican outdoors while drinking and singing some more in the mountain air. Then we headed home the next morning. What we would find upon our arrival at ground zero was anyone’s guess.

After three days in the forest with Jimmy and crew I arrived back home to find a city that was noticeably dead. By order of the government, restaurants were shut down, along with futball matches, plays, concerts, museums and most anything else that involved more than ten people in one place. Hordes had fled to less infected parts of the country. The city was like the Morrissey song—Every Day is Like Sunday—since Sunday is the one day each week the city isn’t completely frantic. I could finish unpacking, Ale told me to get ready to go to San Miguel Allende to visit our friends Sonia and Enrique, and their magic baby Mila who never cries. She was tired of being cooped up. Fine with me, this place was becoming a creepy ghost town. Any minute now the flu zombies would begin staggering down the street looking to devour our flesh. Time to leave again…

So we loaded up the truck Will had left to us—his escape from the viral killer led him all the way to Budapest—and took the 3 hour or so ride out to San Miguel, in the state of Guanajuato. I had been there before when Ale and I went for our first ever weekend date during the Grito, the Mexican Independence celebration. It’s a pretty big deal there since the Mexican revolt against Spain began in Guanajuato, in a nearby town. San Miguel de Allende is named after an early leader of the independence movement, Ignacio Allende, who had some early success against the royal forces, but was later captured, executed by firing squad and beheaded. The town is also interesting because the art school there accepted GI scholarships after WWII, making it a haven for both ex-pat Americans and artists alike. Today it is as well preserved a Mexican colonial town as you can find, filled with boutiques, restaurants, bed and breakfasts, and lots of retired Americans, visiting or living there. I’d say it’s a must stop for anyone traveling through central Mexico.

Enrique and Sonia, who live near us in Mexico City, had rented an apartment in San Miguel while Enrique laid low after the company he was working for, Stanford Funds, turned out to be running an international Ponzi scheme that rivaled Bernie Madoff’s. He had worked there for years without a clue, taking orders, sending them off to the banks in the Caribbean, distributing dividends, etc. He had a nice office in one of the best buildings in the city. He had even broken a personal rule of his and invited his friends and family to invest in this amazingly “solid company.” And then, he found out his boss was a crook the same way everyone else did, by hearing about it on the news. Some of his co-workers had been “quarantined” as official witnesses, so he headed to San Miguel in order to avoid such an experience, since it likely meant being slapped around by the police in a motel until you paid enough for better treatment. Ah, Mexico!

As this town is a major tourist attraction, it was not “shut down” like the places I’d just been to in Hidalgo, but there were still plenty of surgical masks about, and restaurants were making you wash your hands before entering. We had several different dining experiences there. The first was at El Pollo Feliz, a chicken chain with a party attitude. You could order chicken, fries and tortillas (of course) along with a salad bar. The place is plastered with adverts featuring their “happy chicken” character in the role of famous movies or icons, like The Godfather or even popular commercials in Mexico. It was cheap and tasty and we went there twice. Ale and I also hit an Italian-Argentinean restaurant nestled in a beautiful outdoor garden setting on one of our walkabouts. The third place, Harry’s, was first rate, a New Orleans styled place downtown, expensive but excellent. During the meantime we enjoyed our days playing with Mila who was just starting to learn to crawl when she wasn’t sitting around cooing and smiling. I also spent a fair amount of time on the computer, conducting “remote learning” with my students online.

After our dinner at Harry’s, Enrique, who was going a bit stir crazy in this quaint, sleepy town, decided it was time to take me out to the pelodromo, or “hair circus”—an old school name for strip clubs. I pointed out to him that today, with all the designer shaving going on, it should be now called the pielodromo, or “skin circus”. Either way, he was bent for some action, and I wasn’t going to stand in his way, so we dropped the ladies off at the apartment and headed out on the prowl. (Yes, the wives knew what we were up to and let us have our fun—one of the benefits of marrying a Mexican woman.) Prowling, however, is all we ended up doing. There would be no howling as it were, being a Monday night in a provincial town during a flu epidemic. After driving around chasing the directions several people had given us and finding only darkened buildings on the edge of town, we realized it was not going to happen. We had a couple drinks at Berlin, a hole in the wall bar we found open in town and went home to drink for cheap. We tried to sell a wild night story to the girls but they were somehow on to us and laughed at us for coming up empty handed. Finally, I was pissed. I had been willing to suffer a number of inconveniences from this flu epidemic, but when it started to interfere with my strip clubbing—now things had gone too far!

The next evening, Ale and I packed up our belongings and headed back to the DF. I was scheduled to get back to work the next day, I wondered how many of my students would show up. Many had been shuttled out of the country to some U.S. relative’s or vacation spot. Surprisingly, attendance was nearly full and about 70% had completed their online assignments. We spent the next two weeks having our temperature checked and washing our hands upon entering the campus, but other than that things were pretty much back to normal. In the end, our ability to demonstrate that significant “remote learning” had taken place during the flu contingency exempted us from having to extend the school year for two more weeks as many of the Mexican public schools had to do. And THAT would have really pissed me off.

As it turned out, the monstrous flu porcina virus, initially thought to be exceptionally virulent and contagious, was mostly just another strain of flu in a world full of influenza. The deaths attributed to the swine flu were re-estimated to be lower than first thought. New cases steadily declined in Mexico, while they continued to increase in other countries. It seemed the prudent (some said drastic) measures taken by the government were appropriate and kept things from getting out of control, nipping it in the bud. Better safe than sorry, right? And besides, it gave Miguelito the opportunity to get out and explore more of Mexico, which is always a good thing.

You can read this, and other amazing blogs, in a snazzier format at miguelitoinmexico.blogspot.com. You can also view photos related to this blog at flickr.com/miguelito2066.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Little Miss Sunshine Tours Mexico City

As you know, I really love living in Mexico City. Sure, it’s got its quirks and hassles, but they are mostly outweighed by the museums, sculpture, restaurants, parks, nearby colonial towns and beaches, pristine nature, and the overall freshness of living in a new environment. I relish the opportunity to show my friends and family from home around my new city, and even put them up while they are here. Regretfully, I haven’t been able to extend that hospitality as much as I would like, the lone visitor to Mexico City so far being my very well traveled friend Nik. That’s why I was totally pumped when I learned that we would be hosting Bob and Yoonhee, and their beautiful daughter Sunshine, for the first part of my spring break week.

The first benefit of having visitors from back home is their impending visit lights a fire under your ass in terms of getting things in order. First, we went out shopping for a crib and stroller/car seat for Sunshine to use. Honestly, though I am going to have a baby of my own living with us in four short months, I have given little practical thought to how we will accommodate the little guy. This foray into the world of actual baby items brought me to a new level of “wow, this is really going to happen.” I also went out that week and bought Ale a desk to put in the unused quarter of the open area of our apartment. Staying up late putting it all together for her to wake up to made me also feel like I was preparing for fatherhood, as I will likely be doing similar late night preparations of Christmas gifts for Miguelito Jr., or “Beto” (short for Alberto) which we think we may call him. We have a second bedroom in the apartment, but it was mostly being used as an unceremonious storage closet for the many boxes we’ve accumulated over the past three moves. The night before they arrived I scrambled to sort and consolidate, locating many a lost article—“oh, so THAT’S where that’s been!” Having found as much as I did, I am now committed (no, really!) to spending all day some upcoming weekend to a more thorough and complete job. I also managed to do some last minute replacement of kitchen tiles, mount a shelf for the toaster oven and hang a large picture that had long been on my to-do list. Finally, after several days of preparation, we were ready to welcome our friends to our (relatively) new (to us) apartment.

Things got off to a scary start when the traffic down the main highway to the airport, Viaducto, was uncommonly jammed at 10 pm. Ale figured the construction of another east-west artery in the northern part of the city may have been the culprit. My anxiety grew as it took close to 45 minutes to reach the airport and we had not discussed a contingency plan of contact if we were not there to greet them. My worry was for naught, as Bob, Yoohnee and Little Miss Sunshine appeared out of customs about 30 seconds after our arrival! The ride home took less than 10 minutes, so they missed the opportunity to experience a staple of Mexico City life, stiffling traffic. As we drove home, Bob commented on the experience so many have when flying over the city at night—“It’s SO huge!”

My buddy Jim Weathers was leaving the next day for the Dominican Republic, so he stopped by to meet my friends. He arrived in a state common to those who know him: inebriated and elevated. Despite the presence of the baby, he carried on in his jovial manner, complete with “fuckin’ ‘ell” this and “mother-fuckin’” that. We all got a big laugh when Bob, miming for Sunshine seated on his lap, began moving her arms, pointing at Jim and saying, “Hey, who is that crazy mother-fucker over there?!” Jim’s girlfriend Laura soon dragged him away (I suspect) for some last chance lovin’ (she would not be joining him in the DR) and Bob and Co. headed for bed after a long day of traveling.

While I had managed to get the day off, Ale had to work, so I decided to take our guests on a general tour of the city. We began with a walk up Nuevo Leon where we soon encountered a Friday street market on Campeche. Yoonhee took advantage of the cheap fresh juice available and I shared with them the common Mexican treat of jicama, a sweet root covered in lime juice and chile pepper. As we meandered our way through the side streets of La Condesa, we discussed the perfect weather conditions, and how “surprisingly nice” the neighborhood was. La Condesa, named after a countess who once owned the original hacienda, was developed as a neighborhood beginning in the 1920’s and features an array of art deco architecture. It was home to the rich and famous of Mexico City until the big earthquake of 1985, when those who could, fled for newer (earthquake ready) upscale neighborhoods. This left Condesa in decline for a brief time, only to become the trendy revitalized area it is now that so impressed Bob and Yoonhee. Finally, we arrived at the nexus of this trendy little neighborhood, the intersection of Atlixco, Michoacan, Tamalipus and Vincente Suarez where we had a delightful brunch at café Buena Tierra. Bob ordered some Chilaquiles, a very traditional Mexican breakfast dish consisting of tortillas covered in a red or green sauce, cream, onions and your choice of chicken or fried eggs on top. Yoonhee ordered another Mexican staple, though I can’t remember what it was. Both loved their meals. (I specifically remember what Bob had because he asked me to repeat the name of it to him 50 times over the next few days: “CHEE-LAH-KEE-LEHS”)

After eating, we headed over a couple blocks to Parque Espana, the smaller of two fairly large parks in our part of town, where we made our way to a shady bench. Sunshine was too young to make use of the enormous jungle gym contraption that sits at the heart of the park, but she was very much entranced with the sights and sounds of the fountain near our bench in a small pond. Her excitement practicing her walking also garnered her smiles from the old man seated next to us, enjoying the shade and eating fresh oranges. Next, I walked them through Roma—my old neighborhood—where I showed them my old apartment building and introduced them to my old favorite street taco place. (Yes, it had only been about an hour and a half since brunch, but Bob doesn’t need much of an excuse to eat!) I ordered an Alambre, a mix of steak, pork, peppers and onion, which he and Yoonhee devoured. We then headed further north to the beautiful Diana fountain, where we turned right for a stroll down Paseo de la Reforma, the “Champs Elisee of Mexico City.” A flower market lined the wide pedestrian promenade, offering visual and olfactory stimulus to the already beautiful, tree-lined thoroughfare. When we stopped at the golden Angel of Independencia, the most famous landmark and de-facto symbol of the city glimmering under the blue sky, it was time for a few comments on Mexican History. I explained why, unlike in America, there is a difference between the war of “Independence” and the war of “Revolution” in Mexican history. Independence refers to the war against the Spanish Crown, between1810-1821, and Revolution refers to the civil wars and political upheaval against the ruling elite, and between competing political factions between1910-1921.

The boulevard on which we walked also draws its name from another major period of political transformation in Mexico’s tumultuous past. La Reforma occurred (for the most part) under the beloved indigenous president, Benito Juarez, between1854-1876. These liberal reforms stripped the Catholic Church and the military of their many privileges and undemocratic political influence. The reforms also provided further protections and considerations for the average Mexican citizen established during the revolution, including a “Mexican Bill of Rights.” Paseo de la Reforma, the boulevard now honoring these improvements, was ironically constructed by the “Emperor of Mexico” Maximilian I, as a gift for his wife, Empress Carlota. Maximilian I assumed the throne of the Mexican Empire in 1864 with the help of French Emperor Napoleon III, who was looking to expand his influence in the Americas. (His blue coated troops were the bad guys in the Zorro movies.) Rather than retaining the name of the Empress, the boulevard Reforma now honors the democratic changes of the man who deposed her interloper husband and had him executed. Ha! Take that PUNK! (Sadly, his last words were, “Viva Mexico!”)

Next we hopped in a cab and headed downtown to El Centro, another area teeming with history. We jumped out at the beautiful Bellas Artes, a palace built as a cultural arts center at the early 20th Century. It houses a theatre, concert hall, and galleries for exhibitions, such as the Frida Khalo exhibition I saw last year. As it was awfully bright out, we headed over to the adjoining Parque Alameda for some more shade, where Sunshine got some fresh mommy-milk and Yoonhee and I had some icy treats. We then strolled down Avenida Cinco de Mayo (which is not the date of Mexican Independence or Revolution) toward the imposing Zocalo, the enormous central plaza of the city. All Spanish founded cities have such an arrangement, and even small towns have a modest version, but there is none that I know of larger than this one. It is the site of many traveling exhibitions, such as the Nomad Museum’s photographic exhibit, Ashes and Snow last year, as well as the site of many types of demonstrations, celebrations and events. At one end of the square lies the Metropolitan Cathedral, the largest and oldest cathedral in Latin America. It took over two hundred years to complete and is an amalgam of styles, though mostly Baroque. On the other three sides of the Zocalo stand the massive colonial structures that once served as the Palace of the Spanish American Viceroy and the seat of the colonial government which ruled from this location on behalf of the Spanish Crown from 1535-1821. (The other New World viceroy was the Viceroyalty of Peru, seated in Lima, which governed from Panama to Tierra del Fuego before being broken up into smaller viceroyalties due to problems with communication and transportation.) Today the National Palace is a museum, housing the original legislative rooms of the young Mexican Republic, as well as the famous murals of Diego Rivera depicting the history of Mexico. The only actual governing body remaining on the Zocalo is the city government. Perhaps the most famous annual event that occurs here is “El Grito”, a ritual re-enactment of the original call (or “grito”) for independence by the mestizo-sympathetic priest, Miguel Hidalgo. Tens of thousands gather under the palace balcony on September 16 to hear the president proclaim, “Viva Mexico!!!” thus signaling a burst of fireworks, singing, dancing and general Mexican revelry. I haven’t attended it there. I felt nearly crushed among the crowds at The Grito in the relatively small town of San Miguel de Allende two years ago, so don’t think I would appreciate the hording masses attending the event in the Zocalo.

There was an event planned that day in the Zocalo, though nothing of any national historical significance; a mass Quincenanera of 300 young debutantes, celebrating their “Sweet 15,” as it were. As we enjoyed some more Mexican delights—“sopes y sopa” from a hotel restaurant overlooking the Zocalo (did I mention Bob loves to eat?) we looked down upon the dress rehearsal of these young girls on the stage and listened to the music bouncing off the colonial walls. To top off the day, and to offer my guests another authentic Mexican perspective, we took the metro home. The Mexico City subway line is one of the most dependable things in the city, though it can get sardine crowded at times on certain lines. Since this was my first time heading home from the Centro to my new apartment, I couldn’t guarantee the passenger volume would be baby friendly; however, the cars were only half full and there was no need to go look for a taxi. In fact, Sunshine’s unique beauty got her noticed quite a lot, earning her more smiles during the ride home. (People smiling at this kid would be a theme for the weekend.) That night we were visited by my buddy Will, who stopped by for some wine and a feast of Mexican sushi, filled with (a strangely DF tradition) Philly Cream Cheese. I was happy to have two very good friends, one old and one new, finally meet.

The next day it was up and at ‘em with a long list of other things to do and see. Or so I thought. I was learning that the morning routine we had experienced the day before was the norm: Sunshine waking up at the ass crack of dawn, hanging out for a few hours, then laying down for a midmorning nap before we could effectively get out of the house for the day. So, the Turibus ride I envisioned would not happen. Nor would we get to do more than take a drive around the outskirts of Bosque Chapultepec, the “central park” of the city. Here there are lakes, museums of modern art and the Museum of Anthropology, an amusement park, and Chapultepec Castle. This castle, now the national museum of Mexican history, has served as residence to both presidents and emperors, but mostly as a military academy. It was from the bluffs surrounding the castle that the famed “Los Ninos” wrapped themselves in the Mexican flag and hurled themselves to their deaths as the Americans took the city during the American invasion of Mexico, 1846-1848. As we drove along the iron fence surrounding the park, we saw an exhibit of Nordic photography, “Norway: Powered by Nature” that accompanied the recent visit of the Norwegian Prince and Princess last month. (Ale was a principal organizer of the PR campaign related to their visit!) I’m sorry Bob didn’t get to spend more time enjoying them, as he’s quite a good photographer himself. But, these wouldn’t be the only photos we would not have time for; we’d also have to shelve a tentative trip to an exhibit in the Centro by David La Chapelle, “The Delirium of Reason,” the following day in order to make time for a day trip out of town.

Before getting on the road to San Angel on Saturday, we stopped into Califa for some “tacos al pastor,” by far one of the tastiest types of tacos found only in Mexico City. They unique nature of these tacos is that they are filled with meat shaved from a rotisserie spit, in the same way as the Greek gyro or Turkish kabob. This technique of cooking was brought to Mexico City from Lebanese immigrants. (Carlos Slim, one of the top 3 richest men in the world, is a Lebanese Mexican.) Tacos al Pastor include juicy pork shaved from the spit, parsley, onion and a slice of pineapple, topped with lime juice and salsa. RIDICULOUS is how good they are. Just writing about them now is making my mouth water. Again, Bob and Yoonhee were having a fiesta of the taste buds. Afterwards, we finally made our way to San Angel for our Saturday afternoon. We meandered through the weekly arts and crafts market set up in the two little parks located in that old cobblestoned neighborhood. This neighborhood, like nearby Coyoacan, was originally a suburb far beyond the city center. Now, these quaint neighborhoods are more like a colonial oasis in the midst of the urban jungle. While there, Ale bought a blouse and Bob bought a couple of wall hangings from the locals. We headed back and had to select a restaurant again for dinner—not always an easy task in a city full of great offerings. We settled on Il Postino, a lovely little Italian place with and outdoor café seating on the Cibeles fountain at the Plaza Madrid. There Bob ordered some giant mutton on a bone. The pictures of him digging into this thing will crack you up. (Did I mention Bob is a confirmed eater?)

Our last full day consisted of a trip well outside the city limits to a little village called Tepoztlan, about an hour away. Since Mexico City lies in a basin in the middle of a mountain range, it’s necessary to do some windy mountain driving to get out of the city. Once up there, Bob and Yoonhee were a bit surprised, as I first was, at the beauty of the countryside outside the city. Giant pine trees lined the highway, reminiscent of the outer limits of Yosemite. Tepoztlan is also cradled in a small basin surrounded by a wall of sheer rock face. It is such a nifty and magical place that it was the site of native life as far back as 1,500 BCE. More recent inhabitants, from ca. 1,100 CE, constructed a temple pyramid on the top ledge of one of these nearby craggy mountains. The high perch kept it from being destroyed after Cortez and friends razed the town below to the ground when the inhabitants refused to submit adequately. Taking the hour hike up the mountain side to the pyramid is one of the premier attractions of the town, along with the many shops, restaurants, and local “spiritual” offerings—“want your aura read?” White-robed, beaded hippies can be seen wandering the streets, waiting for a message from the Great Spirit of the Mountain (or some such shit). The small temple park at the top features a glorious view of the surrounding rock formations and the town below. It’s a great place to have a picnic and read a book for the afternoon.

After parking, we visited the grounds of the old convent in town, built in the late 16th Century, then stopped for a coffee and snack, before strolling down the main road toward the pyramid. When they looked up and saw how high and steep the climb was, doubt began to set in. Though this is not excessively physically challenging hike for the healthy, the unfortunate fact was that by the time Sunday had rolled around, Bob had taken on the brunt of the cold virus that had been plaguing Sunshine and Yoonhee days earlier and he was feeling pretty darn lousy. After we got to the foot of the mountain under the trees, we decided the pyramid would have to wait another day. Instead we sat in the shade and ate our packed lunches, chatting and people watching, before heading back into town and back into the big city.

The best meal of all, if I must say, was our dinner that last night: Miguelito’s secret special NJ-Mexican pasta sauce with salad and garlic bread. Unfortunately, Bob was so stuffed-up he couldn’t taste a thing—though this did not prevent him from eating! He was coherent enough to help me organize my music collection onto a back up drive, which was much appreciated by a technical idiot like me. Sunshine didn’t have the easiest time getting to sleep that night and wailed for quite some time. At times during the visit, Little Miss Sunshine behaved more like Little Miss Crankypants, but I think she still enjoyed her tour of Mexico City. I’m sure her having a cold didn’t help. Still, her antics certainly gave Ale and I a wake-up call as to what we need to expect in the coming year. The joys of parenthood await!

The next day we parted, Ale and I for a week in Nicaragua, and Sunshine and her ‘rents back to Philly. Details of Nicaragua to follow…

Friday, July 18, 2008

Helping Out

I have written in previous blogs about the great disparity of wealth between the rich and poor in Mexico. Many of the families that send their kids to the American School Foundation where I work are immensely wealthy. Mexico City is filled with luxury cars, beautiful buildings, and expensive restaurants. It is also filled with many poor people, readily seen begging on the streets. The first time you see an old woman lying on the pavement with her knotted hands held out in solicitation, it’s quite a shock. You want to stop and shout, “Hey, shouldn’t someone come help this poor woman?” But after a while, it becomes normal to you, part of the landscape. And later, when you see a woman begging on the pavement with two babies in her lap, you start to say, “Hey, shouldn’t you stop having babies if you can’t feed them?” (No help from the Catholic Church on this one.) That reaction to a poor mother probably sounds harsh, but the reality is that if you gave money to every person who asked for it on the street you would never arrive home with any money in your pocket. It’s not my fault these people are poor. Poverty is part of the system here. It’s part of the culture. It is rooted in a long history of oppression and exploitation that began with the Spanish conquest of the Americas over 500 years ago. It is bigger than what any one person can fix.

At ASF, like many schools in the U.S., there are graduation service requirements. Consequently, there are many programs at the school in which students can participate. Many of them deal with helping the poor of Mexico. Though the “volunteerism” is mandatory, the students seem to genuinely embrace it. One such ASF service program offers students the chance to participate in local Habitat for Humanity projects. Despite the slight religious component of this charity, I have always appreciated the practical and effective work of the organization. I mean, they build houses for poor people who would otherwise not be able to own one. That’s just flat out awesome. The coordinating teachers for the Habitat service club last year were awesome too, my good friends Pete and Cyndi. They are two really special people and I was very sad to see them leave the school at the end of the year.

Last fall, I decided to join them one Saturday on a Habitat trip. The construction site near Texcoco, located in the state of Mexico. Though it lies just outside of the Federal District, is still part of the ever expanding “Greater Mexico City Metropolitan Area,” which has spilled across the borders of the DF and into surrounding states. This area is also the site of a HUGE garbage dump. Many of the poor there actually make there living sifting through the garbage. It is the site where the government wanted to build a new international airport for Mexico City. The current airport, Benito Juarez International, is the biggest and busiest airport in Latin America. Still, it is not big enough. A couple of years ago, the fedearal government proposed they build a new super large airport out near Texcoco. This would have brought related development and many jobs, but remarkably the local poor protested. I’m not sure what their complaints were, but I heard they rode into the center of the Mexico City on horseback, waving their machetes in protest. That’s a little more threatening than a protest I saw here on my first visit to the DF a few years ago—a bunch of farmers protested by lining up by the hundreds in the nude, or with their pants pulled down, so that they were all mooning the passing traffic. At any rate, the new airport plan was scrapped and instead a new, not so big terminal was built at the existing airport. And the area around Texcoco? It still has an enormous garbage dump surrounded by terribly poor people. Go figure.

The day I went on the Habitat trip, we put a roof on a house for an old man. The night before I told Pete and Cyndi I had built houses in my youth and possessed various construction skills. I asked if I should bring a hammer or a tape measurer. Ha! It was a silly question, as I forgot to remember that most everything built in Mexico is built with cement. That’s right, a big flat cement roof hanging right over your head. They simply put a corrugated piece of metal on the roof and fill it with about eight inches of cement. Consequently, there was no need for measuring, cutting or hammering. There was, however, a real need for carrying lots and lots and lots of buckets of cement across a yard and up a ramp onto a roof. So that is what we spent a good part of the day doing.

The kids threw themselves into the work with wild abandon, giving many of the locals a much needed break. (Part of Habitat for Humanity’s deal with the owners is that they must participate in the construction of their houses.) At first some of the men were reluctant to allow the girls to get involved so directly in such difficult and dirty work, but our girls would not be denied! The houses being built are very small and very simple, but when you look at the shanty shacks in the surrounding area that previously passed as housing, you know that what you are doing is a real life changer for these people. And it’s aslo a life changer for the kids too, some of which I think are seeing their fellow Mexicans with new eyes. Seeing random poor people begging in a city full of wealth is one thing, but seeing masses of people living in a landscape of economic devastation is something else for sure. And they don’t just look at these people from afar like they do in the DF. They get to really meet them and talk with them face to face, working, laughing, having lunch, side by side. I can only hope that these students—some of them surely to become major movers and shakers in Mexico’s future—will keep their ASF Habitat experiences in their hearts.

I really enjoyed the day on the Habitat project, so when Pete and Cyndi asked me to cover for them on another trip, I readily agreed. It was not a day without its problems. There was some miscommunication about connecting with our Habitat representative. She changed the details of our meeting, and then was late connecting at the new rendezvous. We eventually made our way to the same construction site near Texcoco, but this time there was not much work to be done. Essentially, we helped some women move some gravel and rocks around to prepare for the pouring of some porches. We also dug a couple of holes, though I cannot say I remember for what purpose. I suppose it was all work that needed to be done, but it did not feel much like building a house. When I shared my experiences with Pete and Cyndi they were not surprised. It appears the local Mexican coordinators of Habitat for Humanity do not have their acts entirely together. It’s a real shame because the kids are truly eager to work. If they could plan things a little better, I am sure these ASF kids could build a lot of houses. But, alas, this is Mexico.

I was asked if I wanted to be the coordinator for ASF Habitat for Humanity next year. I have not committed to do so as of this moment, but as I reflect upon my experiences writing this blog, I think I will take them up on the offer. I cannot personally solve all the problems of poverty in Mexico, but I can do my part.

Photo note: ASF rich brats busting their asses to help their less fortunate compatriots.

You can also view related pictures of extreme poverty and the Habitat Housing related to this blog at:

How safe is it down there?


Well, Mom, perhaps this is one blog you shouldn’t read...

There are, in fact, some serious issues with safety and security in Mexico. When doing my research before coming down here, I read some frightening reports from the U.S. State Department and various travel guides warning of robberies, kidnappings and murders in Mexico. I don’t normally scare easily, but it freaked me out a bit. Luckily, most of the violent crime here is related to the drug traffic in the states outside the Distrito Federal, and most of the worst case scenarios are related to that specific situation. When President Felipe Calderon launched a frontal assault on the country’s drug cartels a year and a half ago, he made drug interdiction a priority. He sent 30 thousand army troops to the worst areas. As a result, the number of drug war related assaults, kidnappings and murders has skyrocketed. But even after acknowledging the impact of the drug wars, it is also true there are other sources of crime in Mexico. I must confess that I know regular people here who have been mugged, robbed, car jacked, assaulted and kidnapped. (I have yet to meet anyone who was murdered.) On the face of it, I realize that probably sounds pretty bad.

On the other hand, everything is relative. A very quick internet search conducted on “the most dangerous countries in the world” did not yield for me a list which included Mexico (though one did feature the United States). Jamaica, Zimbabwe, Venezuela, Iraq, Russia, South Africa, Somalia, Haiti, Indonesia, Israel, etc. came up again and again, but not my beloved Mexico. And none of these lists were exactly the same. I imagine the list you get depends on how you phrase the question and how the list makers decided to crunch the numbers, not to mention the questions of who is crunching the numbers and for what purpose. For instance, are we talking about drug interdiction and/or civil war related crime? Do the statistics refer only to the sort of average crime that happens to regular citizens? Are we mixing combat fatalities with run of the mill homicides? The answers to these questions will likely give you the variations in lists I found. Obviously, countries with civil wars and violent insurgencies are very dangerous, but how valuable are these figures for inclusion in a serious discussion about crimes against tourists in non-combat zones? And though most of you probably do not consider the United States a particularly “dangerous” country, I think we would all readily agree there are places in Trenton, Camden, Newark, Brooklyn, Detroit, L.A., New Orleans, Dallas, Oakland, Washington DC, Atlanta, New Orleans, etc. that anyone in their right mind should steer clear. And major cities are not the only places homicides happen in America. I know a lot of small-town Americans are being murdered because I see the cases being solved on reality crime shows like, Cold Case Files, Forensic Files, FBI Files, The First 48, etc.

So, is Mexico a safe place to visit and/or live? Is it more or less dangerous than living in the United States? Allow me to discuss several related topics and let you decide.

The drug war in Mexico...it’s bad. Really bad. The kind of bad that would make Americans flip-out if it was happening in their country. In the first six months of the year, 3,500 people have been killed in the drug war. That’s a record pace compared to last year. The killings generally take place in the Mexican states where drugs are imported, produced, refined and/or exported to the United States. (There are 32 states in the “Estados Unidos Mexicanos.” Yes, the official name of this country is the United States of Mexico!) The northern border is the worst. There are places up there where law and order exist only as a pleasant concept. I read recently that some cartel thugs came into a town and started a huge shootout throughout the downtown area, killing several police officers, including the chief, as well as innocent bystanders. The next day the entire police force resigned. You can’t really blame them. Cops in Mexico are found dead on a daily basis.

And not just any cops, high ranking officers like the heads of the state police. This spring, the national head of the anti-drug division was assassinated. The next day, the head of the national anti-kidnapping unit was executed. And cops aren’t just any kind of “found dead.” I have read several stories about cops being found beheaded in the back of a car and seen footage of the charred bodies of dead police being found on the side of the road. Often times, the bodies display signs of torture. I can’t believe anyone is actually still signing up to join the police anymore; except, of course, for the fact that there is tremendous money to be made aiding and abetting drug traffickers. (Police in Mexico are notoriously underpaid, particularly the local police who make close to the minimum wage.) In the old days, perhaps, it was a pretty good gig because you took your bribes while there was no real expectation to do much law enforcement. But now, Calderon is actually attempting to seriously reduce this illicit trade. The shake up seems to have disrupted much of the established “order.” As some cartels are weakened by the government’s efforts, others are emboldened to take over new territory, resulting in inter-cartel violence that resembles an all out war. This is Bloods vs. Crips fighting over an inner city corner, magnified to the nth degree. Sometimes the cops are not killed for enforcing anti-drug laws, they are assassinated in order to punish them (and warn others) not to do business with the competing cartels.

To give you an idea of what it is like let me give a few more examples. A few months ago, I read in the paper that the Zetas, a paramilitary mercenary hit squad associated with drug cartels, were placing banners on freeway overpasses. The banners were recruitment posters, asking military and former military members to come and work for them. The banners brazenly boasted of “better pay and a more competitive package” than what the government offered. In nearby Guatemala, cartels managed to run recruitment spots on the radio. Can you imagine hearing such an ad on WMMR in Philadelphia?!

Now before you go shaking your head and saying, “Boy, is Mexico screwed up!” keep in mind that all this violence and suffering is a result of the desire on the part of Americans to do drugs. Yup, all those regular (mostly white) Americans who enjoy a little recreational puff or snort or pill are actually the primary cause of all this mayhem in Mexico. I am absolutely certain that if a Mexican demand for drugs was creating the same level of violence, death and instability in the United States, the U.S. would intervene militarily. But, because Mexico does not have that sort of military power, they are forced to suffer. Sure, there are drugs in Mexico, but the U.S. demand dwarfs what the average Mexicans can afford to buy.

It’s similar to the organized crime violence and police corruption that occurred during Prohibition in the U.S. People wanted to get a buzz drinking alcohol and making it illegal was not going to stop them. Plenty of unscrupulous and violent characters were willing to do whatever it took to get the drug (alcohol) to the masses who wanted it. Plenty of police and politicians were corrupted by the money paid to look the other way. When they repealed the 18th amendment prohibiting alcohol, all the related crime stopped. I can’t help thinking that legalizing illicit drugs would be the lesser of two evils in the same regard.

It’s a pretty simple equation: No high demand, no high profits. No high profits, no willingness to kidnap, torture and kill to preserve your business. Sure the drug-related violence in Mexico is grotesque, but it is directly caused by the exorbitant demand for drugs north of the border. Mexicans must think, “We gave you tacos and you give us death and mayhem? Thanks America!”

OK, the violence related to the drug war is pretty significant, but what about the rest of Mexico? If I stay away from drug war areas, stay away from drug trafficking and drug interdiction, is it safe then? Well, it depends. If you live out in the countryside and are poor you don’t really have anything of value, so I think you are generally left alone. (Though I think poor women in these areas regularly suffer abuses that we would consider criminal.) Or, if you are middle class in the towns and cities of provincia, things are relatively safe as well. If you are wealthy—and there are some very wealthy people here—then you have likely surrounded yourself with a variety of protections that help to keep you safe. You may be “safe,” but the reality is you also live your life under guard as a constant target. I encounter these rich “targets” at my school on a daily basis. In the mornings and afternoons, the front of ASF looks like an SUV car show. The biggest and baddest SUVs on the market are lined up with tinted windows, driven by dark sunglasses laden chauffeurs/body guards.

One day, as I ate my delicious burrito for lunch at the stand in front of the school, I saw a woman pull up in the sportiest Mercedes I had ever seen. As she came to a stop, the doors of the car behind her opened and two men in suits and sunglasses jumped out and began running toward her car. At first, I imagined I was watching some sort of assault taking place. I soon realized it was just the opposite. This was her personal security entourage. One man stayed in the car behind, another helped her from her car then took possession of the Mercedes, and the third—hand on openly displayed holstered gun—walked her into the school gates. I have no idea who it was, but it was someone who obviously does not go anywhere without having a car full of armed men follow her every move. I am sure she lives in a large beautiful place surrounded by high walls, elaborate security systems, armed guards and barbed wire. I suppose that’s one way to live.

You do not have to be super rich to need security around your house. All houses in Mexico City (and much of Mexico) have bars on the first floor windows, and often the second and third. All the roofs have razor or barbed wire separating the buildings, except the poor who put broken bottles and glass up on top of their walls instead. If you leave yourself unprotected, you are likely to get robbed. I saw an interesting documentary at the Film Festival in Morelia last year called Los Ladrones Viejos, “The Old Thieves.” In it, famous old thieves (all growing old in Mexican jails) reminisced about the glory days of the 70’s and 80’s when robbery was an art form and done only to take from the rich and give to the poor. Throughout the movie they emphasized their credo of non-violence. They said they would never enter a house they believed was occupied, and never used violence to earn their living. They disparaged the new thieves of today who use guns and violence as part of their trade. Oh, the good old days…

It is no doubt the poverty of the Mexican masses contributes greatly to the crimes of street muggings, pick-pocketing, burglaries and car/taxi jackings that are still an unfortunate part of life in Mexico City, and other large state capitals. I know several teachers who were approached by muggers on their way to the subway station from our school. Thankfully, only one ended up having to hand over money. One, a big Spaniard named Alex, shoved the idiot down a set of steep steps. Another two girls simply screamed and ran away. Another woman I know was less lucky, two guys jumped into her moving cab, forcing the driver to drive to a remote location. When they realized she did not have anything of value, they took their frustration out on her face. (It may be important to note that all three women in the previous examples were blonde and alone.)

And gun violence? Ale had the adrenaline rush of having the language school she was working at robbed by thugs at gunpoint. The crooks rounded everyone into one room and demanded all the valuables. When one person only had a few pesos for the bus, the kindly thief said, “keep it.” My friend Enrique recently drove us to the movies in the borrowed (luxury) car of a friend, complete with bullet marks from when his friend’s watch was stolen at gunpoint. My friends, Pete and Cyndi, watched a person driving a fancy convertible in stop and go traffic robbed at gunpoint. The assailant simply walked up to the side of the car, put a gun to his head and asked for the victim’s wallet, which he promptly turned over. I have heard that many crooks commit crimes with guns that are not even real—but would you want to find out?

And what of the famous kidnappings down here? Did you see the Denzel Washington movie, Man on Fire? Well, sorry to say, that sort of stuff really happens too. Kidnapping is a major phenomenon in Mexico, Latin America and much of the third world. In one of my first nights out in Mexico City I went to a trendy nightclub called “Cibeles.” It was filled with young, rich and attractive Mexicans. It reminded me very much of the pretentious vibe I have found in some Manhattan bars, filled with yuppie up-and-comers. While there, I started chatting with one guy who told me his kidnapping story.

He was in his dorm in his private high school when three masked guys burst in, tied, gagged and blindfolded him before throwing him in the trunk of the car and taking him to a secret location. He was there for several days while the negotiations for the ransom were made. In the meantime, the kidnappers cruelly joked with him that his parents had refused to pay and that they would be left with no choice but to kill him. After three days he was dumped by the side of the highway, still bound, blindfolded and gagged, where he lay for two hours before the police arrived. While he lay there, people drove by an obvious boy in distress and no one stopped. Getting involved in such matters can bring unwanted trouble to you or your family. (When a friend of mine was being chased by a mugger in broad daylight, she ran for help to the juice stand where she bought a juice every morning, only to have the owner shrug his shoulders and step away from the fray.) Many years later, this young man was still angry when he told me that the first question the police asked him upon untying him was “Do your parents have kidnapping insurance?” (something apparently available down here) instead of “Are you ok after being traumatized for three days and laying here on the side of the road for two hours?” Because his father was extremely rich and influential, they were able to find and arrest the kidnappers—all federal police officers.

But catching kidnappers is by far the exception to the rule. Most kidnappings go unreported, much less unsolved. Think about it—if some group of guys can manage to snatch you off of the street at their pleasure, when they tell you, “if you go to the police, or don’t pay the ransom we’ll kill you and your family,” you tend to take them at their word. They have already proven they are capable of abducting you against your will. And if the police are not directly involved (which they sometimes are) they are generally regarded as inept and inefficient. In contrast to the image of the shiny, hero cop in the U.S., the average Mexican policeman is a poor, uneducated, brown guy wearing a dingy, ill fitting uniform, driving a police car likely to have dents and missing lights. On top of that—in the event that the police manage to arrest someone—the courts are so overcrowded, inefficient and corrupt as to make convictions unlikely. Plainly stated, it’s really hard to get caught and sent to jail for doing crime here. Because of all of this, the bad guys often win the day.

For average middle class Mexicans, tourists and gringos, the kidnapping concern is generally what is called “express kidnapping,” which often occurs in a taxi. Your taxi driver takes you to an unexpected rendezvous with armed hoodlums who jump into the cab and demand you go to an ATM and take out the maximum amount available. If you are lucky, they let you go after you cough up five hundred dollars or so; or they may keep you hostage for days until your account runs dry. This happened to my neighbor’s ex-husband some fifteen years ago. As I understand it, this practice is becoming less frequent due to some long overdue government attention to the problem. But, as I mentioned above, this happened recently to a woman I know. She survived the beating, but had to cake makeup over her black eyes for weeks. The easiest way to avoid this is to call a taxi service or take a taxi from a sitio station. Both record the cab number and the location of the trip. These are safer but more expensive, of course. Too expensive for someone like me who is not rich and who uses cabs regularly. Instead, it is important that you know where you are going and have a good sense of how to get there. That way if the cabbie goes off the appropriate route you will know something is up. Another precaution you can take is avoiding the famous green VW bug cabs because there are no back doors through which to exit. Finally, you should trust your gut. If the cabbie seems creepy and you don’t feel safe, just hop out and get another one. There are plenty of them around.

Muggings, kidnappings, carjackings—rough stuff, I know. But what drives some of these people to a life of crime? The minimum wage in Mexico is 50 pesos a day—that’s less than five dollars, A DAY. So, even if you are working steadily at a legitimate job there is a chance you are making 25-30 dollars a week. This is hardly enough to raise a family properly, and a clear explanation as to why people risk their lives to come to work in the U.S. And if you are truly poor and uneducated—and God forbid, a woman—your chances of getting a job are slim. Every day in Mexico City, women and their toddler children lie in the filthy street in front of cars stopped at red lights, doing some lame gymnastic or clownish feat in order to get a few pesos from the drivers, who usually ignore them. Meanwhile, the poor are constantly observing the upper classes walking around in fine clothes and driving luxury cars, eating in fancy restaurants and shopping in swanky malls. (I should mention that most of these rich folks are mostly white, or light brown, while all of the very poor are dark brown and Indian. But, I’ll explore that angle further in another blog.)

I don’t know about you, but I would be quite pissed off if I were poor and brown in this country. Unlike the United States, where you can say with some sort of a straight face that even the poor get an education and have a shot at meaningful economic advancement through hard work and perseverance, the Mexican poor are basically condemned to a life of harsh poverty. Mexico’s public schools make Trenton’s public schools look like Princeton’s private schools. Mexican society is much more closed than the U.S., with a rich caste of “haves” rigging the game for their own purposes against the “have-nots.” I am honestly surprised that more poor people don’t just say “fuck it” and start grabbing whatever they can from the rich. It is actually a testament to decency of most Mexicans or the inherent goodness of human beings—or both—that criminals are not just running rampant down here robbing, killing and stealing in the name of “fairness”.

Not that there are not people advocating a reshuffling of the economic cards here. In the last presidential election the leftist candidate, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, an enthusiastic supporter of Hugo Chavez, barely lost the last presidential election in a hotly contested recount. He continues to stir the masses at rallies proclaiming himself as the “legitimate president of Mexico.” If he or his party ever comes to power, it is scary to think what might transpire. Their rhetoric is extreme, making frequent use of the notion of “revolución!” Several of my rich students told me their family’s bags were packed and ready for a quick exit to the United States or Europe, in case Obrador won the recount. Revolution is perhaps the one constant in Mexican history, and it continues to hover in the wings. In order for this country to move forward it is imperative that the burgeoning middle class continue to grow. Maintaining the current gap between the very rich and the very poor (the percentage of poor is currently around 60%) is a recipe for disaster—and, of course, crime.

So having said all that, is Mexico more or less dangerous than the United States? It may seem like an obvious “yes”. But let’s take one last look at a few statistics that may help illuminate the answer to this question. The crime rate has fluctuated quite a lot in the USA over the past 50 years. After reaching a peak in 1991, the violent crime rate (homicide, rape, assault, robbery) has been on a downward trajectory. Some say the decrease is a direct result of the legalization of abortions some 20 years earlier, which makes some sense to me, despite the icky implications. Whatever the reasons, it has been relatively low since then. Between 1991 and 2005, violent crime in the United States has dropped from 758 to 469 per 100,000 people. Homicides came down from 9.8 to 5.6.
Property crimes dropped from 5140 to 4130. Are those rates good or bad compared with Mexico? Well, let’s first look at some other places in the world to provide us with context. Comparing the American homicide rate per 100,000 to Canada and Europe, the United States is as much as five times more dangerous than these places, including: Germany 1.0, France 1.6, United Kingdom 1.4 and Canada 1.9. On the other hand, the U.S.A. is much safer than some other countries which have higher homicide rates including, Russia 20.15, Guatemala, 24.3, Jamaica 32.41, Venezuela 31.61, South Africa 49.60 and Colombia 61.78. Those numbers certainly make the U.S.A. look pretty good—but don’t forget that the highest figures come from countries with enormous problems, including crushing poverty, total government corruption, drug wars and rebel insurgencies. Even in America, without those sorts of extreme problems, there are cities with comparable homicide rates to the most violent countries in the world, including: Baltimore 43.5, Detroit 42.1, Washington D.C. 35.8, and Philadelphia (Philly, Baby!) 22.2.

And Mexico? Well, the Mexican homicide rate is reported at 13.04 per 100,000 people, more than double the United States. But it is obvious that the majority of these murders are related to the drug war. If you take the overwhelming U.S. demand for cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy, methamphetamine, and heroin out of the equation, I am quite certain the figure would be much lower, possibly even lower than the homicide rate in United States. Other crime statistics per 100,000 people from 2004 appear to bear this out: Mexico’s rape rate was 14.26 to America’s 43.5, auto theft in Mexico was 140 to America’s 432, robbery was 147 in Mexico to America’s 146, and aggravated assault was 187 in Mexico to America’s 310. Total crimes per 100,000 people in 2004 were 4118 in Mexico, compared to 1503 in America. These numbers seem to suggest that America has as much crime, if not more crime than Mexico. In fairness, I should point out that there are probably some questions about the reporting and maintaining of these statistics, which I suspect are much more accurate on the U.S. side, and probably reflect under reporting on the Mexican side. (Again, why report crime to a corrupt and inept police force?) What I do know for sure is that when I travel to various places in the United States of America, I usually see very nice houses without fences, bars or razor wire surrounding them. That must say something.

I will confess, when I first was out and about on the streets of the DF, I was straight-up freaking out—especially at night. My heart rate accelerated, palms grew sweaty, I was looking over my shoulder, contemplating exit strategies, eyeing up passersby with suspicion. I find that funny when I look back on it now. These days, I walk around Mexico City without any of that that kind of stress. Sure, I pay attention to what’s going on around me if I’m walking alone late at night, and I put my wallet in my front pocket with my hand on it when the subway is crowded, and I avoid poor neighborhoods with degenerate/dangerous looking people hanging around; but, I do that everywhere: Philly, NYC, London, Madrid, Rome. Honestly, I do not feel afraid to live in Mexico City. Even though I do know some people who have been victims of crime here, I also know many others who have not. The same is true to some degree of the breadth of people I know in the U.S.A. I don’t visit drug war zones and I'm not involved in the drug trade, so that immediately reduces my exposure to the worst of the violence here. I’m not a blonde woman and I don’t drive a luxury car, so I am not seen as a rich and easy target. I think if you take basic precautions wherever you are, and stay out of the high risk areas, then having crime happen to you becomes a matter of luck, or lack thereof. Crime is a part of life; it always has been. But, you can’t stay locked in your house all day and night trying to avoid it. If you do you will end up missing out on life—and even if you do stay locked at home, someone might break in and kill you anyway.

So overall, for me, living in Mexico has not been an especially unsafe experience. In some ways it may be more dangerous than the United States, but in other ways, based on crime statistics, perhaps not so much—especially if you’re not involved in the drug trade. Based on what I’ve read, what I’ve heard and what I’ve seen, I would compare living in Mexico City to living in NYC during the late 70s, when crime was peaking. Everyone who read the papers knew that crime was out there, some of it violent. Everyone knew people who had been victimized in one way or another. But it wasn’t quite exactly like the movie Escape from New York either. People still lived and worked and enjoyed their day to day lives in the Big Apple. The same is true here. On the whole, there are so many good things about living in Mexico, and in Mexico City in particular, that it makes whatever the (possible) increased risk of crime worthwhile. Crime happens, and it happens everywhere to some degree. I really think a person would be foolish to let the fear of crime serve as an excuse for not visiting this fascinating and exciting place (or any other—except maybe Bagdad). So come on down and enjoy what Mexico has to offer, you (probably) won’t get mugged or kidnapped!

Photo note: “Security" in front of ASF

Saturday, May 17, 2008

FIESTA!



Have you read books or watched movies in which Americans are looking to get away for a while to forget about their troubles, or are looking to simply go have a fantastic vacation? And where do they often go? Mexico! Where do thousands of college kids go for spring break? Mexico! Where do Flavor Flav and Brett Michaels take their final two reality show date contestants? Mexico! Why? Because Mexico is a great place to party. Mexicans love to party, and party they do, often all night long. There is a night club across the street from my apartment. (Luckily, my bedroom is in the back of the building.) It’s not uncommon for me to see young drunken twenty-somethings leaving there at 6:45 am on Friday as I am headed to work. In fact, Friday mornings are by far the best weekday for traffic since so many people are getting up late after partying on Thursday nights.

When you are in a cantina, bar or club, you’ll notice how quickly (at the drop of a sombrero?) Mexicans are ready to jump up and sing along at the top of their lungs with the music. It’s pretty cool. I never experienced, nor could imagine, playing at a bar with my band and having the entire bar singing enthusiastically along to a Radiohead, Rolling Stones, or Pink Floyd. One could argue that, Latin music, traditional and contemporary, lends itself to more sing-a-long situations, but I’ve seen them do it to all kinds of songs, slow, fast, old, new, Latin, gringo. I really believe it’s more about the culture of “fiesta” than the music itself.

Cantinas, practically on every corner of the DF are filled with happy revelers of all ages, though not usually the younger crowd. Still, it doesn’t matter; on any given Friday evening, they are packed, with old and young, rich and lower middle class. (I was going to say rich and “poor,” but they have a level of poor here that you would find difficult to comprehend. And these people are not in Cantinas on Friday nights, but rather, outside selling gum and cigarettes, washing windshields at the stoplight, helping park cars or begging.) Still, the point is, the atmosphere is rich with the sound of music and laughter, the smell of food and beer and the kinetic energy of a crowded dance floor. And it’s especially fun to watch the old people tearing up the rug. In Mexico, it is “party ‘till you drop… dead!”

I was flabbergasted last September when I attended a “Grito” in San Miguel Allende celebrating Mexican Independence from Spain. Unbridled joy. Patriotism. Elation. Revelry. Mayhem. You name it. I’ll admit there were a few moments I was concerned for our safety among the shifting and shouting crowds packed into the relatively small town plaza. It was particularly disconcerting when the gigantic fireworks carousels setup in several towers directly over the massive crowds below ignited. As they began their fiery spinning and whistling at the stroke of midnight, after the mayor’s reenactment of the original “grito” or “cry/shout” for independence, sparks reigned down and toxic (no doubt) smoke choked those nearby. The hordes, complete with both old ladies and infants, pushed and shoved to escape the dangers. Still, remarkably, the singing, shouting and flag waving continued without much interruption. I remember saying to Ale that if Mexicans put half as much energy and enthusiasm into their national problems as they do into their partying they’d be a first world nation within a week.

Christmas is another party season, which officially begins nine days before Christmas Eve. “Posada” literally means “inn” and refers to the shelter Joseph and Mary sought upon arriving in Jerusalem before the birth of Jesus. Traditionally, they include the reenactment of this search for shelter, along with songs, chants and prayers. The kids celebrate this holy occasion by beating the hell out of a piñata. Normally, different neighbors put on one of these parties on each of the nine days leading up to “Noche Buena” or Christmas Eve. However, the contemporary versions I attended here in the DF consisted mostly of eating and drinking lots of alcohol. I’m not proud to say that as much as I love to party, I just could not get to all the Posadas to which I was invited. I was simply worn out. The same sort of no-holds-barred attitude was present at New Year’s Eve last year when I watched the most amazing fireworks display I’d ever seen over Acapulco Bay from a five star restaurant up on the hill. Afterwards we went back to the condo to party until the sun came up. And get this—we then spent New Year’s day recuperating by the pool, in the sun. Nice.

As you can imagine, the Mexican partying spirit is much appreciated by me and my ASF coworkers. Our network of gringo compatriots, along with our Mexican amigos is often holding a party of some sort or another. I’ve been to many such celebrations over the past year, and thrown a few of my own. I’ve hosted several dinner parties and after hours parties here in my apartment. I’m also lucky enough to have a large rooftop patio on top of my apartment building. It would be a shame for me not to put it to use occasionally. So, last fall, my apartment/building mates and I put on a fiesta on the roof. We decorated, bought food and drinks, cranked up the grill, hired a Mariachi band and karaoke DJ, and let the good times roll. We had about 80 people up there in the crisp fall air and a good time was had by all. At least until the end of the night when a scuffle broke out between the DJ and his crew and some revelers who felt the DJ was being a little too friendly with their girlfriends. In the end we were able to resolve the situation without too much difficulty. I’d direct you to Flickr to view the photos of this fine night, but someone stole my camera! Again, probably form the DJ crew. Oh well…

This spring we decided to throw another fiesta grande up on the roof. This time the primary entertainment was a Beatles cover band called Beat Bang. I’d seen them at another rooftop party at a Posada and they were fantastic, so I knew I had to get them up on my roof at some point. They weren’t cheap—6000 pesos, or almost 600 dollars, but they are worth it. Once again, Ale and I, our roommate Scott and our neighbor James pitched in to cover the band, food and drinks. Since the rainy season had started and there was a chance of evening showers, we got some tarps and strung them up over half of the roof. My friend Will helped out during the day with the shopping and decorating and by 6 pm we were ready to go. At the time of the fall party, I had only been at the school a couple of months and still didn’t know a lot of people, so the turnout was moderate. This time, I’d gotten to know many more people, plus word of the fall party had circulated, so we expected even a greater turnout. We were right.

By the time the first set of Beatles tunes ended, the roof was well packed. The bar (our large ironing board, covered with marble slabs from an antique sideboard in the apartment, was jammed with tequila, rum, vodka, mezcal, you name it. Oh, and several bottles of Jack Daniels! (I’d had a rare moment of clarity when I included in the email invitation my proclivity for this spirit.) The garbage can filled with ice and beer was constantly being emptied and refilled. In between the first and second set of the Beat Bang band, my own ad hoc faculty group, randomly named “China’s Loyal Youth,” from a headline in the New York Times, played a couple of tunes we’d thrown together.

After the second Beat Bang set, we passed the hat for them to play a third set, and then the party shifted into another gear. At this point we were pushing 200 people up there partying, Mexican style. Many in attendance were from the local Hash Hound Harriers, the local chapter of a world-wide drinking and running club. (Yes—drinking and running, in that order—they proudly call themselves a “drinking club with a running problem.”) My roommate Scott and neighbor James are both members. The band finished the night with me, my friend Tim and others leading the crowd, by this time fully gathered around the band, concert style, in a 10 minute version of Hey Jude. It was site to behold and one of those moments that I really wished my friends and family from back home could have been here to see.

You may be wondering about how I we got away with live music on a roof with other apartments all around us. Where were the police telling us to turn down the music? That just doesn't happen here. The club I mentioned across the street plays loud music all night, Thursday-Saturday. A private school behind my building hosts occassional private parties that rock my bedroom with their dance music. In Mexico, it seems the idea of a right to peace and quiet is superceded by your god-given right to party!

It was in that spirit that I had hoped to use the band’s equipment to play dance music for an hour or two, but by the time they were done with the extra third set it was already after 2 am and they were looking to pack it up. So, when they pulled the plug and the Ipod music ended around 3, the throngs of partiers, WELL intoxicated at this point, began to make the semi-treacherous journey down the two story spiral staircase out of the building. Afterwards, I spent the evening chatting with the small pockets of stragglers, the last band left at around 5 am, and also worked on getting Scott off the roof and into bed. He was leaving on Monday to move back to England, so he’d taken this last fiesta in Mexico as an opportunity to get other-planetary hammered and annoy the guests in a variety of ways. At one point he was on all fours without a shirt on and rolling around on the dance floor. He also ingratiated himself to the crowd at by grabbing the microphone and screaming, punk-style, the lyrics to the Beatles songs (the lyrics he could remember in his drunken state of mind). I could only shake my head and laugh.

All next week at work people kept thanking me for putting together such a great night. I was glad to have been of service. The clean-up was a bitch the next day, for sure. And the entire affair had cost about 1,200 bucks, but it was well worth it. After all, this is Mexico, and it was time for a fiesta!

Related pictures of this blog can be located at:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157605010614714/show/ I suggest you click the info icon in the middle of the first picture, which will bring up the witty photo captions.

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Bob Dylan's Sombrero


I saw Bob Dylan from the third row the other night. It actually didn’t suck. In fact, it was a pretty good experience, overall.

As you may know, The American School Foundation is the one of the most expensive private schools in Mexico City. More than double many others. As such, our classrooms and hallways are filled with the who’s who of the rich and famous of Mexico City. The Katie Couric of Mexico, Adele Micha, her son was in my class last semester. I’ve been told that the two young children of the Mexican Michael Bolton, Luis Miguel, attend our elementary school. The Corona family sends their kids there; the Mexican negotiator of NAFTA, his son went there. These are just the few examples I can think of off the top of my head. The front of our school is crowded all day long with chauffeurs, nannies and body guards. For vacations, my students ski in Vail and hunt big game in Africa.

As such, many ASF students have access to advance issue concert tickets. Primo stuff. One such student is a recent graduate named Rennie who remains a friend of Tom, an English teacher whom with I work. Through that channel I was given the opportunity to see Bob Dylan, in the third row of the National Auditorium.

The back story: I am not a Dylan fan. In fact, it is probably more accurate to say I am hostile to him. As with Eric “God” Clapton, I find it extremely annoying that these two guys who are generally pretty good as musical artists go, in my opinion, receive such cult like adulation. And with Dylan, despite a few good tunes and some admittedly hip lyrics, he has made a lot of poorly produced albums rife with annoying unintelligible singing. I’ve tried to figure out what all the hype is about, but I just don’t get it. I’ve seen Dylan twice already. It wasn’t on purpose. I saw him once with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and another time with the Grateful Dead. Both shows were similar, interspersing Dylan’s sets between the other bands’, using the other band as a surrogate back-up group. Both times I found the Dylan sets droll interruptions to otherwise enjoyable concerts. Regardless, this ticket represented generous offer from my good friend Will, and a chance to see a internationally famous musician in a Mexico City venue I had yet to visit. So, I went. Did I mention the seats were in the third row?

After starting the evening with few drinks and a bite to eat at a local Cantina (literally a brightly lit bar/restaurant where food is usually free with a minimum of drinks) at which we watched a gaggle of middle aged women line dance away their Tuesday evening at an apparent birthday party, we took the bus (2 pesos or, less than 20 friggin’ cents) to the auditorium a few miles down the road. It’s a pretty impressive place, holding about 10,000 people. There are bigger venues in town, but not as nice and with lesser sound quality. After a quick stop at the Auditorium bar for a hit of Jack Daniels, we headed into the show and took our seats. (Third row!) Dylan and the band appeared, dressed in suits that looked like the outfits worn by the members of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in the in the movie Swingers, complete with hats. Dylan wore a particularly large rimmed cream colored number. The stage was lit in a sterile white light that changed only in intensity throughout. Dylan started off with a raucous version of Everybody Must Get Stoned that got the crowd, me included, into the show immediately. After a few more songs he shifted to the organ, where he stayed the remainder of the evening, save the encore.

One major difference between my previous experiences with Mr. Zimmerman and this night was the band. These guys were clean and tight, adding a level of sophistication to Dylan missing from much of his music with which I am familiar. The drummer, bassist and lead guitarist were first class. I spent much of my time focusing on them. If I had seen them in a bar I would be raving about them as this really cool jazzy, rockabilly band I’d stumbled upon. Strangely, they played not a bit to the crowd, simply standing (practically) still the entire time, transfixed on Dylan himself. In turn he acknowledged them not at all, singing in his own world with a closed eye look of grimaced constipation. That Dylan is not aging gracefully and of Jewish origin is no secret, but let me say that from 25 feet away, he truly looks like a crotchety Hassidic elder disguised as Bob Dylan. One weird thing I noticed, he looked like he was pulling his hair up the back of his head under his hat, sort of a reverse back to front comb over. Why one can only guess; it is not a good look.

The show was like a concert in Spanish for me. Not because it was in Mexico, but because I spent the evening listening to songs that were lyrically only 25% comprehensible to me. He wasn’t doing the straining moose call he does when trying to rock out too hard. A style he was never very good at, even before he turned sixty three. Instead he sang well within himself and the steady mid-tempo music, keeping the nasally moaning within a reasonable level and allowed the songs to breath and flow. Musically, it sounded very good. Admittedly, I didn’t know most of the songs, and I imagined them to be from recent albums I haven’t heard. But I found myself thinking more than once, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind listening to this at home.” The songs I have heard before, I recognized only faintly, because they had been so radically rearranged to fit this new smooth and fresh style. In fact, they were half-way through the closer, Blowin’ in the Wind, before I even realized what it was!

Other highlights from the show include seeing the famous Lucha Libra fighter, el Hijo del Santo. He sat in the front row, silver glitter mask and all, next to his hot wife. (Or was it his mistress?—after all, he was wearing a mask!) I could see Mr. Santo very clearly, as I was sitting only two seats over and two rows back; me being in the third row and all. All around me sat lots of rich old men and women, several of them nodding off at times. There were also fewer numbers of rich young kids, making use of their primo tickets and wondering, perhaps, what all the fuss was about. Directly behind me sat a young, rich and intoxicated man (who likely did not need to be at a job the next morning—if ever) who shouted out slurred cries for the song, The Hurricane, as well as other random calls such as, “Mr. Dylan, I love your sombrero!” (I too wanted to hear The Hurricane, my favorite Dylan song, and was teased several times at the sight of a violin on stage, only to leave unsatisfied at nights end.) My friend Tom, sitting a few seats away from me, found this spoiled brat more annoying than funny since he was seated directly in front of his verbal ejaculations. One final tid-bit, sitting on the end of his organ amp sat an Oscar statue, presumably the real deal from his Oscar winning song, Things Have Changed, from the movie Wonder Boys.

About an hour into the show, I went to the bathroom for a second time. While I was out there I saw my friend Steve, another co-worker who had traveled to the show with us, and his wife Sally. They were both big Dylan fans who were regrettably watching the show from the nosebleeds. Knowing the show would soon be over, I offered Sally my ticket. She was ecstatic of course, since it was a ticket for the third row. After a few minutes it dawned on me that I had not been asked to show my ticket the first time I returned to my seat. (It is Mexico, after all.) I told Steve to follow me and we managed to walk clear down to the fourteenth row or so before finding two empty seats. It was during this time that Dylan spoke the only words of the evening, simply identifying the band members. A few minutes later, Will came back and let Steve take his seat next to Sally for the last number, something they both appreciated. After they finished the song, the band lined up like they were taking a press photo and then walked off the stage. Finito. No encore. Nada mas.

Afterwards, we headed to a local Cuban bar near my house, Bodeguita del Medio, for a nightcap and reminisced with Tom, Will and Rennie, about the concert. I got home around midnight to Ale who asked, as I crawled into bed, “How was the show?” To which I replied, “It was actually pretty cool, the music was surprisingly good, and after all, I got to see Bob Dylan from the third row!”