Dreamers Rise An Open Notebook And for those who choose the twisty road, prefer it to the straight Let joy beat out old misery, as love will conquer hate. Illustration by Henry L. Stephens from The Goblin Snob (ca. 1855) A sort of electronic broadside, composed of rants and reviews, conceits and speculations, and whatever else feels the need to be here. Issued as chance will have it. Incidents of travel (III) After a couple of days of this we were sufficiently recovered to think about getting back in the car and driving down to the capital, though speaking for myself it would be some time before I was back to normal. There was an superhighway most of the way; my map says it was a toll road which I don't remember, but then I've no recollection of paying tolls anywhere in Mexico, although we must have. I have a hazy memory that we stopped briefly at the Toltec ruins of Tula, which were only a few miles off our route. If so, that would have been, I think, my first encounter with Pre-Columbian ruins of any significance, but I don't think we were in the mood to linger. Mexico City was overwhelming, starting with the traffic. As we approached we drove past the vast shantytowns where millions of campesinos who had left the countryside in search of work were settling, adding ever wider concentric rings of urbanization. Our own immediate destination was a wealthy suburb — the lomas de Reforma — where my friend's relatives lived. As far as I can recall we only spent one afternoon with them, on the first day we arrived, and I can't say that I remember much in particular about the visit, except that the head of the household was an American who had the Mexico City distribution franchise for a large U.S. appliance manufacturer, that each property in the neighborhood was enclosed by a high concrete wall surmounted with shards of broken glass to deter intruders, and that the family's Indian criadas made fresh tortillas, served deliciously soft and warm in a cloth napkin. Our stay in the city was brief, and it's basically all a blur in my mind. I was suffering from altitude sickness — the city is well over 7,000 feet above sea level — and at times I could barely walk a block without becoming exhausted. Together with the after effects of illness and the disorientation of being in a foreign metropolis the situation did not lend itself to sober investigation of the surroundings. It would have taken a week just to get oriented, a month to become accustomed to the rhythms of the city. As it was we were there, if I remember right, for two days, three at most. The best that I can do is to catalogue a few fleeting memories, the superficial impressions of a clueless foreigner's whirlwind tour of one of the world's most labyrinthine cities. We may have had ideas of staying with my friend's relatives, but if so they didn't work out. Instead we spent the first night, and possibly a second, in a hotel (Hotel Uxmal, I think) right in the center of the city. It meant driving downtown and negotiating the city's complex traffic circles, an experience I am not eager to repeat; I suppose we parked somewhere inside the building. We walked around the zócalo a bit, where buses were discharging streams of pilgrims from the provinces, and peered into the windows of jewelry shops and coin dealers on the side streets nearby. We took a taxi (a VW beetle with the front passenger seat removed) to Chapultepec park, ascended to the top of the castle from which the niños heroes had precipitated themselves in 1847 rather than surrender to Yankee invaders, and toured the Museo Nacional de Antropología, which featured the piedra del sol as well as excellent exhibits on the country's various indigenous groups. We took at least one ride on the metro, finding it cleaner and quieter than New York City's subways, though I can't say I remember where we went. I have a vague recollection — it may be pure fantasy — of visiting the Universidad Nacionál. There may have been other famous sights that didn't register or that I've forgotten. Every evening at 5:00 it rained for a few minutes, then cleared. I remember more distinctly our visit to my friend's elderly grandmother, who lived alone in a high-rise apartment building downtown. She was frail and perhaps a tad eccentric, a bit like a ghost from a Carlos Fuentes novel, but sharp as a tack and welcoming. It was at her suggestion — it may have been more like insistence — that lunch was ordered for us from a little eatery around the corner. It was the first time that I had eaten tortas. The word can mean many things but in this case it meant sandwiches of chicken, avocado, and sour cream, served on a soft roll. They were delicious, and for much of the remainder of the trip I would ask for them as we travelled, though to little avail as they rarely seemed to be available. On our last night — or was it the second of three? — there was some confusion about our room; the Uxmal was booked up, and suddenly every other downtown hotel was as well. After several phone calls we found one that had a vacancy, only to get hopelessly lost trying to locate it. By now it was dark. After driving aimlessly through unfamiliar sections of the city we managed to connect with the periférico, headed out of town, and for want of an alternative spent the night in a pricey Holiday Inn on the outskirts. In our frazzled state we promptly locked the two sets of car keys that we carried with us inside the car. In the morning, as we struggled to break into our own vehicle, a cluster of children on their way to school walked by on a bridge above us and had a good laugh at our expense. Fortunately the Corolla had a rear side window that opened; we managed to pry it loose enough to gain access, sparing ourselves the further ordeal of having to locate a locksmith. (To be continued) February 2, 2008 [ Permalink ] Previous page Next page Home Index About Email me