Taxco and other happenings

The small, two-person terrace of Borda's cafe jutted out right on to the Plaza, the magnificent Iglesia de Santa Prisca staring back at our small faces, humbling us both. The premiere location offered cafes cons leches (and one presumes whatever else one might want--resembling a studio apartment more than anything else, the Senora scooted into her small kitchen and prepared everything to order) and an unprecedented opportunity to voyeur, to snatch photos of vendors, corrupt policias, and sluggish old men from a safe distance. James and I sat on the small balcony, as another man waited inside for what smelled like papas fritas. The Senora was kind but slow, and he sat patiently for at least twenty minutes. When I caught the man exiting onto the terrace through my camera lens, I noticed him hand his hard-earned food to a man clearly overwhelmed, hair in knots, clothes in tatters, lugging around a worn garbage bag over his shoulder. I marveled at the quiet humanity. In a place where one tends to think more of thievery, kidnapping, trafficking, and the like, despite having those perceptions changed, it's always nice to experience somewhat intimately a moment like the above. This act was still counteracted by the twin-brother team of petty terrorism--pickpocketing, stripping in the plaza, squealing in strange high-tone nasal voices that seemed to come straight from hell. At any rate, these were the varying sides of humanity that Borda's cafe afforded.

Taxco is a hillside town that we'd hoped would provide a bit of respite from the heavy pollution of the city, from work schedules that seem to interrupt our attempts to further explore, from congested traffic. The air was fresher, the sky bluer, the stars viewable from one of many rooftop terraces. We serpented through the narrow cobblestone streets (the European influence is distinct), sat in unpretentious plazas in front of simpler churches, higher in the hills. And ate well. If there's one thing that Mexico has consistently offered me, it's been top-notch comida at an affordable price. I've been gorging myself on the various salsas, relishing the cheap comida corrida, the Mexican rendition of the Menu du Jour, but at a scant fee of $3.50. Carrot soups con queso, aromatic rice, chile rellenos, chicken-stuffed squash, etc., these are the trappings of America's finest fare, and yet it is served with flare and humility, and at a price that alienates no one.

I already dread the end. These pictures will show you why!

mexico: un mundo des contrastes

Hello friends! Welcome to my first blog from D.F., el ciudad de Mexico. I came here expecting both third word elements and surprise at how civilized the city really is. Every guidebook and every former voyager told me that travelers are pleased with how much their pejorative expectations were arrested by the kindness of the locals, by the cosmopolitan air, by the relative safety of the city. This has certainly all been confirmed. I have come to see the city as one of stark contrasts: the extreme wealth rubbing shoulders with indescribable poverty; sunny skies against afternoon rain; modern skyscrapers versus Aztec remains, cheap metro tickets versus normally-priced starbucks (don't worry, I only went because it's where James meets his boss). This blog will be a tour of my exploration from yesterday, all which easily falls under a study of dichotomies. See if you can pick them out without me highlighting them! Come on, it will be fun.

The day began with my first Mexico City metro ride. This is one of the largest metros in the world, carrying more than 3.8 million passengers daily. It is also more efficient than most metros I've taken and hands down the cheapest. For sixteen cents, one can ride across the city, serenaded by blind men on accordions, blind women on guitars, blind men and women singing. They must be an organized group. At peak hours, a train seems to speed by every thirty seconds; we never waited more than two minutes. The metro was the nightmare that overtook my sleep in the weeks preceding my departure. This was the beast that I thought would destroy me, turn me upside down, shake out all my shiny coins and personal belongings. In the end, I was amazed at the facility and efficiency of the system.

Our first train ride took us to the famous Zocalo square in the centro historico, one of the largest public squares in the world. Here one finds the ruins of an Aztec temple, famous historically for live human sacrifices. Next to the temple is the Metropolitan Cathedral, dating from the 16th century. Across the way is the 17th century National Palace, and in the middle of the square one often finds war protesters. Yesterday, a big black tank holding riot-gear milita men rolled into the square. This one center holds such strange contradictory and competing action that it's almost overwhelming, nothing like the manicured and temporally-consistent squares of Western Europe. Here are some pictures from the square. My favorite is of the organ-grinder, to whom I offered a few pesos out of guilt for snatching her photo.










James and I then decided it was now or never, and that we couldn't be stopped by fear--something along those lines. So we buckled our proverbial seat belts and ate tacos off of the street. For $1.50, one can get five(!!!) tacos, so for $3.00, we purchased ten tacos of ambiguous meat filling (I found out later at least one of the tacos was made from stomach/intestine, but I certainly don't know which), praying over cilantro that we worried would make us sick--one is to be leery of fresh fruits and vegetables, as they've often been washed in tap water. The tacos were delicious, and 24 hours later, we seem to be alive and diarrhea-free. This experience of expectations trumped (and oh so tasty) was necessary to my further exploration of cheap culinary adventures.

On our way across Avenue de Reforma, we ran into a FASCINATING protest, which looked more like an orgy/spring-break beach party, with a tam tam drum constantly beating, and multiple stages of fully-nude bodies dancing. Below them, in contrast, were two-rows of riot-gear clad police. Unfortunately the pictures I took didn't turn out; I have a very conservative camera. Apparently they've been protesting daily since May 3rd against the city government's denial of their right to protest. And apparently it's too difficult to arrest hundreds of nude, angry Latin Americans. Fascinating! Aren't dialectics fun?!

After the bustle of downtown, it was nice to return to my neighborhood of Coyoacan, former home of Frida Kahlo. Coyoacan means "place of the coyote," which is symbolic to me in someway. In my book, it means something like "run wild, be free in your soul, live passionately, etc." It looks and feels like an isolated colonial city, and it is very quiet. Its roads are made of uneven stone, and in the evening when it rains, certain streets flood dramatically. At seemingly every corner is a plush garden, plaza, or Spanish-era church. Behind tall security walls, one sees the garish roofs of fancy mansions. Taquerias, ice cream shops, and street-side churro vendors dominate the landscape. It feels like home! Please enjoy the pictures of my lovely neighborhood, and check back for more news!