RACIST!

First thing on the agenda is to get tot he embassy and sort out some paperwork.  The traffic jam on the way helped to ratchet up the tension...that is always pleasant.  Of course, driving in Mexico City is always a thrill and so much of the direction of traffic flow makes no sense.  Perhaps that has to do with the Aztecs.  If they laid out the city...they had no cars!  Parking in this city is just another adventure.  We had no idea where we could park, so we chose the Anthropology museum.  Immediately upon our arrival we had to walk in haste quite a ways down Reforma to the American Embassy.  I know without a doubt we looked like a couple of uptight mall walkers, minus the matching warm-up suits.

The Embassy is pretty gross, like  a bad restaurant from the mid 70's.  We stand and get our papers checked with a slight sweat on our brows.  We get flagged through.  Pass through the metal detector.  We stand at the 'ticket window' while our IDs are checked again and handed a visitors badge.  Through the bomb-proof door and face the fresh faced kid who tells us to attach the badge to our clothing. he points upstairs to the room we are looking for.  believe me, the building is ugly enough, but not quite as bad as the framed picture at the top of the stairway and in each room.  To look up and see a totally smug, disinterested face staring blankly at all who step foot in here is a disgrace.  Yes, the face of Barak Obama looking straight through you with an "I don't give a flying sh*t about you or your country" expression on his face.  Of course, the irony is the two knuckleheads flanked on both sides of him, both Hilary and Biden smiling like one of them just farted and you have to figure out who it was.

Our time here is pretty quick.  We leave but both express concern over a tall guy with an overbite who was pacing nervously in one of the offices.  he kept looking at his email account (yes, I spied) and would exhale frustration with repeated 'Oh God...!   I hope he made it OK.  He seemed nice enough.  Maybe I was just fooled by the way he sat...kind of unsure of himself with his feet pigeon toed.  He wore black low top Converse. He just looked like a simple, nice guy.

As we stood outside the Embassy we decided to take a chance and check out this one guy who supposedly sells records on the street.  We could go to Chapultepec castle, but i opt to follow up this tip that one of the art wank people gave me a week or so ago.  I pull out the scrap of paper the guy wrote the directions on.  At the corner of Juarez and Baldera.  Back in the car Tonya does a quick map check, and we are off in the direct of Bellas Artes...which is basically in the middle of town, the famous historic part.

It is not a far drive.  As you near Bellas Artes and the Zocalo, traffic obviously starts to pile up. Typical of a busy section of town.  I was in the left lane, so I could pull into the parking garage up ahead.  We are going along at a pace that could be outdone by a casual walk. It is a bit warm, so we have the windows down and are just talking about whatever.  I hear a voice form outside the car say, "Hey!  Where are you guys from?"  I don't know what to think.  It sounds like an obnoxious waiter, you know the kid who try to be best pals with you and tell you jokes.  I am sure it is not aimed at us, but I look over my shoulder to the left.  He looks like a short obnoxious waiter.  he is smiling and walks right up to the window.  he is holding a piece of paper and a photograph in his right hand, and waving with his left.

"Hey.  Which part of the states are you guys from?" he says smiling.  "I just got back form there.  I was deported" he says like I care.  he gives me the same spiel that any bum does, just give me this amount of money so I can catch the bus to ____________ (fill in the blank with any given Mexican city).  he shows me the picture of him and some black guy.  Supposedly the black guy is a priest who was a huge help tot his guy.  I wonder if he could read the boredom and indifference on my face.  Why did you just tell me you were deported?  Do I have an Obama sticker on the back of my car...or better yet, one of those stupid 'Coexist' stickers that I forgot about?

No.



We sit still in traffic. He is frustrated, he throws his final point, "I was just deported"  The cars in front of us start to move and he sees he has run out of time. I just shake my head and start to move forward.  he stares at me as I inch forward, throws his hands up in disbelief, quickly leans toward the car and yells, 'RACIST'.  I can't believe it.  What an idiot.  What does not giving money to this guy have to do with being a racist?  This is a simple example of the bigger problem most Hispanics have with the legalization issue in the States.  It is not race, it is about law, about right or wrong.  I look at him walking away in my side mirror.  he is shaking his head and looking back at the car.  In these few seconds I get overwhelmed with anger and frustration.  Why should this bum get mad at me because I am flat-ass broke and have no money.  No, his ignorance says because I speak English, I am loaded.  I am tired of this mode of thinking...one could say it is a racist way of thought.  If all Mexicans are illegal criminals, then all white Americans are filthy rich. Right?

No. Of course not.  Tonya sees I am flustered.  I tell her what the bum said. We have moved a total of about 8 inches.  I see him standing about 25 feet behind me, on the sidewalk.  I am about to bust a spring.  I lean out the window and yell at him, "Hey!".  He looks up and towards the car.  A long, lanky, Texas sized arm comes out.  It raises high, and even higher is the middle digit of the hand at the end of this arm.  The deportee cannot believe what he sees. He looks frantically on the ground, then the street.  He is desperately trying to find something...anything to chuck at me.  I have one hand on the wheel and the other on the door handle.  I have one eye ahead and one on the troubling deportee.  In complete frustration, he scours the pavement and sidewalk and cannot find a thing to throw.  Again he gets frustrated, gives me a dirty look and darts off into the traffic, headed somewhere across the street.  The traffic is moving and we move a few feet and turn into the parking garage.

We come out of the garage and I am on high alert.  I am scanning the area for the obnoxious waiter guy with the picture of the black priest.  I am also on the lookout for a roughneck gang to come and grab me and beat the crap out of me.  We stand at the square of Bellas Artes, gather our bearings and make for the direction of the street vending record man.  We choose to go through the long line of stalls to see what we can see.  We stop along the way and buy a few bootleg DVDs.  Finally, we get a good copy of Robin Hood.  It is a few good blocks of vendors and I look at the paper with instructions scrawled on the.  It reads 'street post.  corner of Balderas and Juarez'.  This must be 'x' because this is the spot.  However, there is no record man.  There are plenty of fruit men and tacos and juice.  We walk up and down the streets end.  I tell Tonya that maybe the record guy is on the other side.  We find a space amidst the street construction, and head to the other side.  About halfway down the block, I see a beat up wooden record crate.  "Hey!  Is that him?"  A guy has five crates of records on a dolly.  he's wearing headphones and starting to untie his crates to get set up.  Tonya taps him and asks if we can browse.  He takes his headphones off and asks what we want.  He points to the top two crates and motions to go ahead.  His stuff is not that good.  I find a copy of George Harrison's 'Dark Horse'.  I want it, but he wants too much.  he tells us that on the other side of Juarez, the next four blocks of Balderas is filled with street vendors, and at least two record guys per block!

I ask Tonya if we can venture across the street, she consents, and I am like a kid on an Easter egg hunt.  Sure enough, on the first block there are two different street guys selling records.  Most of it is bunk, but a few could be gems.  I find a copy of Prince's 'Sign Of The Times'  it is pristine, never been played.  The sleeve is a little dirty though...hey, this is Mexico right?  He asks for a few bucks.  I debate with myself for a moment and Tonya says, "Just get it!"  I do. We have a whole street ahead of us.  I know there must be better, so we move on.  We go down a few streets and upon finishing fingering another dusty box of records, I look at Tonya and we both say we're hungry.  personally, I cannot look at records if I am hungry or have to use the bathroom.  There is a Sandborns across the street-lunch is calling.

After a brief rest and some hot food, we make our way out into the hustle and bustle again.  We decide to walk down one side and then up the other.  The side we walk down must be the shoe and food side.  Every stall is food or insoles for your shoes, or other shoe accessories.  At an intersection, I see crates!  We know where we are going.

I start rummaging through the crappy cardboard boxes and crates.  I know there will eventually be something I am really looking for.  A few possibilities, but these guys are asking some silly prices for Mexican pressings in shabby sleeves.  Tonya is milling around smoking, telling me it is OK.  I feel bad.  It is no fun to stand and watch nerds look at records.  I tell her I am good, lets head back.  As we walk up the street more vendors have shown up.  I have to hold back, so we keep walking.  One vendor flags me over to look at his stuff.  As I start to, I realize I have already been through it...he does too.  he tells us that the guy up on the left has some great stuff.  This guy does.  He has on crooked glasses and even more crooked teeth.  His hair is greasy, and a huge flop goes across his forehead.  He has a few football jerseys hanging over the plastic crates.  One jersey is Miami Dolphins.  The first record I see is 'Survival', by Bob Marley.  I need that.  He wants almost $20. I say no way.  He says he will talk to the man and see if he can lower the price.  He walks away to see if he can cut a deal for me.  I flick through his crates.  He has good stuff.  Lots of rock, lots of good American pressings.  he comes back and plops the album down in front of me, then he plops down a Jimmy Cliff 7" 'Wonderful World, Beautiful People'  I guess this is a two-for.  I decline.  He asks why.  He probably will not understand a word, and I know Tonya will not translate it right, but I tell him anyway,"I already have the Jimmy Cliff album that is from, and I am not interested in a single.  The Bob Marley is a Mexican pressing.  The sleeve is weak...not even Tuff Gong"  He doesn't understand, but he knows I am record nerd, and backs off.  I see Morrissey's 'Suedehead' single and asks if he has anymore imported Smiths singles. No.

It is time to move on.  I do not want to sit in traffic, had enough of that already.  I tell the guy thank you.  he tells us when to come back.  He also tells us of some other places to check out.  I am truly appreciative of this guy, and his tips.  I will definitely come back and spend more time trolling this street when I can.  I think this could be a great adventure, digging in dirty crates on dirty Mexican streets.  I can't wait to come back.