King of the Street

On nearly every street you venture down in this crazy city, there is bound to be a ‘king of the street’, or at least of the block.  This is not counting the kings of the parking lots either.  These assorted representatives of royalty will sure to be anywhere there is pavement and a car.

Don’t get me wrong, this ‘royalty’ I speak of does not require haughty family lineage and blue blood.  It does not require special marriage either, and aside from drug lands, it does not require any sort of battle or fighting.  In some cases though, I would guess there is some family inheritance involved, but not consisting of much…a few simple hand me downs at best.  To be a part of this royalty, all you need is a rag. A red one is preferable, but if not available, any old greasy sort will do.  If you want to go a step further, get a whistle. There, you have all you need and now you are in the club!

After acquiring your necessary equipment, you cannot rule without a kingdom.  You must lay claim to a block or two, or a parking lot.  It is not uncommon to see arguing between kings or even queens.   If there is a suspected piece of prime property, tempers are sure to flair and betrayals that would make Shakespeare blush.  One day I witnessed two street women arguing over turf, the space of about 30 feet.  It was getting ugly and on both sides of the street a small curios crowd was growing.  Someone had definitely tried to cop someone else’s’ turf.  They were yelling at one another.  One would advance towards the foe and the other retreat.  The foe would then advance back on their aggressor, almost like tug of war.  During the whole incident though, it was imperative that who ever was taking the stand at the time, had to wave their rag over head or at least in the direction of the lesser person. 

I suppose it is not so different than the feudal times.  You see a space and as you approach in your car, out of nowhere a king appears, arms held high and waving his red rag.  Whether or not you need it, even if the whole block or parking lot is empty, the king is there to guide you to safety.  Not every one has a coveted whistle, as many manage to do just fine with their God given abilities, using their own lips.  When helping you, they are suddenly a Good Samaritan.  They whistle and wave and guide you little by little into whatever space you are trying to get into.  When the loud stern whistle blows, you know you are safe and secure and the mission has been accomplished.

These kings are not without fault though, there are times when they whistle and wave and get distracted by something else.  It is not their whistle which tells you to stop; it is sometimes the car behind you.  Once you feel the bump and hear the exclamation of your guide, then you know something is wrong.  This is also common place with poles and cement blocks as well.  They are not perfect, no…they are only human like you and I.

I understand it is important for everyone to work, even these guys.  I appreciate the fact that they take the most meager essentials and put them to use, to help earn them some money. Yes, these helping hands do not come for free!  Like I mentioned before, you can walk out into an empty lot or be on an empty street, and lo and behold the guy who rules this turf will show up out of thin air.  He will do his best to guide you, even though there is not another living soul anywhere near you.  These acts, of guidance and help when so unnecessary seem ridiculous to me.  I must confess, when I face situations like these, I just carry on with my journey.  However, on most other instances, one is expected to roll their windows down and pay penance (or ‘tip’) the king for his help and mercy.  This usually adds up to about 3 pesos, if you feel extra generous, maybe 5.

The local 'king'

Regular journeys through familiar territory obvious makes for an easily recognized friendly face for both parties.  The old guy down the street, he greets me with guerro (whitey) every time he sees me.  Obviously, if the street is not busy, he sees me and greets me, gives a simple, lackluster wave, almost like a weakened Matador.  He bows slightly waving the rag towards the open spaces.  He sits and smiles and waves when I do it all my self.  Likewise, when he sees me return, there is no need to break the relaxation.  He will simply nod, as if granting quiet permission, and lets me carry on.  No tip required, none expected.  This particular ‘king’ shares turf with another member of court.  He is a smaller, dark man.  One leg is shorter than the other and he wears one of those platform shoes with a giant sole to help even out his stance.  His eyes are always yellow, as if he has been smoking truckloads of dope.  His hair stands on end and his voice is quite gruff for his size.  There is no beef between us, as he too greets me with guerro and waves me on when his work is not needed.  Many times, even if busy, by the time he hobbles to where he needs to be, he has missed his money.  Still, limping as he does, he patrols this small square with great prowess.  In fact, I have noticed he even lets a new guy sleep in the square.  It may be a family member or brother, because he has a wild eyed look to match is unruly mess of hair that he has.  When he strides by, it is always with some sort of wild intent, usually with his sleeping bag wadded up across his shoulders.

If you take the first turn past the square, Tonya insists that the king of this block built a dislike form me just shortly after I arrived.  He is a skinny man that always wears a greasy baseball cap.  His pants are always too short for him and too big, as he always has them cinched up tight around his waist.  His face is always twisted and many times he’s grimacing and you can see that he is missing several teeth.  Personally, I wonder if he loosened his belt a bit, it may away with the constant grimace on his face.  He wonders up and down the street behind the market, and every time he sees me he will turn his back, or stare right past me as if I didn’t exist.  I think Tonya likes this guy, because every time we see him and he disses me, she loves to say, “That guy obviously doesn’t like you”  I do not understand why, as I have never done any wrong to this man with the high-water pants.

The old king.

Across the way, past the big monument and just before the block full of small cafes and restaurants lies the most intriguing bit of turf I have yet to witness.  This block is chaos during lunch time and the guy who patrols it must make a mint.  Mind you, this is all just my perception, because in reality I do not see how it is possible.  The king of this block is an old, ancient ruler.  He too, is small, in fact if you do not know what to look for, you will miss him.  If it is not busy, he waits up on the sidewalk in a door way.  What I do not understand is how he gets to where he needs to be in time to do anything.  He is old and slow.  I wonder if he is actually arthritic because he barely moves at all.  He moves like Charlie Chaplin, but not in a humorous way.  His old feet barely move as he waddles back and forth.  I have yet to see any real movement in his legs, as they seem as if they are welded tight at the hips.  The same could almost be said for his arms. When he patrols the street, he moves at such a pace you wonder if he is moving or is it the traffic around him that makes it look as if he is moving.  His head is to one side and his old wrinkled arms hang rigidly at his side.  When he waves his flag, his old hand tries its best to twirl it.  It just kind of waves at his side, with his arm never raising his hand higher than his belt.  You would never know this guy is waving you in or out unless you knew this old guy was the king.  It is amazing that I have yet to see anyone challenge this old guy.  He has a prime stretch and yet I have never seen him challenged. 

Across the street from the old man, is a real aggressive king.  I have seen him wave frantically and even get in the traffic to stop cars and direct him.  Obviously, these guys must get some sort of   inspiration from watching bull fights, as is evident in this guy.  Just the other day I saw this young ‘gun’ step out and stop two lanes of traffic just to get the attention of a single person looking for a place to park!

It is an odd amusement I have now when I drive.  I am always curious to see what kind of king I will encounter.  Admittedly too, I always like trying my hand at getting away before he officially grants me leave.  Still, as in the days of old, I am comfortable in the kingdom I am in, and respect my rulers and in return, they respect me.

Neighborhood Watch

As I have said before, I am very fortunate to be living in a lovely neighborhood like this one.  It truly is a beautiful one.  Over time, I have noticed more than just the blooming flowers and gorgeous old homes.  I have also managed to make a few friends and get smiles when I am in the streets.  As much as some of these simple accomplishments make me happy, I still have yet to get more than a grunt from the fat cop a few streets over.  Only after repeated times of yelling "Good morning" down the street at him and waving, does he barely raise his hand or acknowledge me.  Still, it is progress.

Actually, Tonya pointed it out first, that it appeared that I was befriending the cops before anyone else.  In one sense, I suppose living here is like living in certain neighborhoods in LA or Chicago, the only real difference being the cops that cruise around the neighborhood are the ones carrying the machine guns rather than the gangs.  In order to crack down on corruption, or maybe just to keep things fresh, the cops are rotated every so often.  The cop who first guarded the house across the street was my first 'official' friend.  He would beam a smile when he saw me, wave and talk.  I never understood him, but he loved to talk to me.  When he got comfortable, he even would come to pet the dogs whenever he saw us.  At his most brazen, he asked if we wanted to go to the Garibaldi with him.  It is the part of town where bars are all around, and the sounds of mariachis are everywhere.  That is the place for Mariachi watching.  Sadly though, just as our friendship was blooming, he was moved on.  The cops who took his place have now warmed up to me too, especially the one who always hides down the street and texts on his phone.

Yes, aside from cops with machine guns and shotguns wondering around the streets, it is lovely.  Every morning as you walk down the street, you can see sudsy water flowing out from underneath doors.  The maids are busy cleaning and mopping everything.  They even go out and sweep the sidewalk, while the trash men sweep the streets.  I just don't understand the clean facade.  They make the place spotless, and push it all under shrubs and in huge piles on the back street.  It kind of sucks when to on a nice stroll and you have to kick away an empty plastic coke bottle half filled with pee from one of the chauffeurs who sit in their cars awaiting Mr. Big to call upon them.  In actuality, you see these 'trucker bombs' all over the place.

I like the regular characters I have come to recognize.  There is the bread guy on a bike.  He rides a special bike, with two front wheels and a huge basket on the handlebars.  It is filled with assorted bread and rolls.  Underneath the breadbasket, he carries a thermos and a few assorted instant coffees and some Styrofoam cups.  After seeing each other so much, we started exchanging greetings instead of nodding heads or smiles.  If you flag him down, he will stop and hop off his bike, pull the cover off the basket and let you grab your bread...if you are thirsty, he'll whip you up an instant coffee on the spot.  This is currently my favorite neighborhood guy.

The wondering musicians are quite good too.  I like the wondering trumpeter.  An older man, he slowly makes his way around the streets, stopping every so often and plays old songs on his old trumpet.  He stands alone in the street and just plays to whoever will hear him through opened windows, behind gates or driving by.  He has a son, or grandson, who will wander up and down the street, happily taking the change that passers by may hand over.  There is something that really makes you feel like you are in Mexico, hearing a lone trumpet playing a sad song, floating above the blooming flowers and stonewalls.  There has also been a couple wondering through doing some serenading themselves.  The man plays a saxophone, and the woman walks around to grab change.  As nice as a sax can sound sometimes, this guy hits too many bum notes and is just sort of messy.  However, when they are around it is sure to get a chuckle or two out of you.

Most of the characters run in packs, well, work as a group.  There are the scrap metal guys.  They split up and take a few streets at a time.  You can hear them echoing each others calls, as they walk slowly down the street, yelling out for any scrap metal or iron you may have hidden away.  There is the 'belt brothers'.  Two guys who split up and take their own side of the street.  They troll the whole length of each street with a ton of belts draped over their shoulders.  They will ring your bell, and when you show up, happy show you an array of leather belts that you can buy on your very own doorstep!

Sometimes, you see the weavers.  Usually it is a single guy, but sometimes a pair.  If you have any seating that has worn thin or busted out, you can tell the weaving man.  He will sit outside and with his dried fibers, sit and weave you new seats for your seats, or couches if you have those woven kind.

The mobile shoe repairman is making himself at home at the end of the street.  He too, if you ask, will come to your house and re-sole, re-heel, or just simply shine your shoes.  His wish is your command.

The trash guys are all part of a family.  The dad is grumpy; he rarely says hello or smiles.  He has two sons.  The chubby one is quite stern too, though now he is friendly to me...sometimes.  The youngest is a skinny, wily kid.  Every time he sees us he smiles and says a few kind words. It is either he likes us, or he has a big crush on Tonya.  The catch with these guys is this, they will happily pick your trash up and take it to the end of the street where the big trash truck comes, but you have to 'tip' them. Ahhh, everyone is out to make a buck.

Last but not least, is the lone robotic tamale salesman.  I used to think this was unique to our 'hood, but I have heard these guys in other neighborhoods elsewhere, there must be a kingpin tamale lord who sends his cronies out to do his dirty work.  These guys always look downtrodden; walking slowly down the street, pushing a cart with a heated container filled with tamales and other assorted Oaxacan goods.  Below...or on top and even beside the tamale pot, they have a huge loudspeaker attached.  As they walk down the street, the echoing sound of a squelchy, robotic voice repeats a mechanized message of 'Come out. Come get these tasty tamales. Tasty Oaxacan goods. Don't be afraid, come taste’ from the very first time I heard this, I was baffled.  When I finally go to see the lone tamale guy, pushing his cart down the street and the robotic voice bouncing off the front of house, I was completely intrigued.  Sometimes, late at night, you can hear this siren's call from afar, as the lure of tamales slinks through the air and into your open window.  He is out there, somewhere, the tamale guy.  Day and night, he and his pre-recorded robot voice go back and forth selling these so-called tasty Oaxacan goods.

The Gypsy Coffee Place

We are sitting at our friend’s place, ready to go over some ‘business’ plans.  He gets a phone call.  He hangs up and informs us that some more will be joining us in about an hour and a half.  Personally, I don’t want to sit here for this amount of time watching Tonya and him smoke.  I decide to make a suggestion to help pass time, “Well, why don’t we get something to eat while we are waiting?”  Tonya looks up with a bright look on her face, “Are you hungry too?”  Does she really need to ask?

Raul looks at the both of us and says OK, “I know this great coffee place” 

This confuses me a bit, so I have to clarify, “Is this a coffee place, or a coffee place that serves real food?”

“It is a coffee place that serves real food” he says reassuringly.  Raul tells us it is close by, and if we are ready, then he will lead us on our way. “I was just told that Richard Burton used to live here in my building” he says smiling.  As we walk, he tells us about the neighborhood we are in.  “This area is nice.  A few blocks over there” he says, rolling is eyes, “…is the Zona Rosa.  It’s the gay part, and some of it is pretty sketchy.  A few blocks that way and it gets pretty dangerous.  Don’t go over there.”  He laughs as he continues his advice.  “If you walk that way, in about 15 minutes you are in the middle of downtown.  This place is great….I hardly ever use my car, I walk everywhere”

I am thankful it is daylight.  I would hate to accidentally walk down the wrong few blocks and never be able to return to the real world.  Then again, this is Mexico City.  I suppose it can be like that anytime day or night.  As long as hipster guys walk past me with their shoulder bags, I figure that is a good sign you are in a ‘safe’ environment. 

Raul is right.  It is a nice walk to our destination.  As we near our spot, he points “Ok.  This is the place” Standing in front of it is smells of roasted coffee.  I look at the sign over the door and it simply reads ‘cafeteria’.  It is old, and faded, and looks like a great spot.  I liked this place as soon as we step inside.  It is sparse, but neat.  There are loads of old coffee grinders up along the wall.  There are three industrial size bags of pancake mix sitting on the table near the counter.  Counting us, I think the total number of patrons is 5 or 6.

The guy in the corner with the book on the table keeps looking at us after we sit.  It may be because he hears us speaking English, or maybe we are interrupting his reading.  A few times we lock gazes, but no need to puff chests or anything.  He is a nerd with a book, drinking coffee.  I have no idea what Raul is saying, as I keep looking around at the place.  It is so charming in its own harum-scarum, lonely little way.  The old guy by himself drinking coffee tells me that this place is legit.

“I love this place” Raul says with a giant smile on his face.  “It is run by gypsies” The gypsy comment catches both Tonya and I off guard.  She beats me to the punch with the question, “What kind of gypsies?”

“The Spanish kind” Raul says. He then gives us the brief rundown, how the gypsies thrive here between the homos and the thugs.  “This is the only place in the whole of Mexico City that has a gypsy population like this.  It is crazy, for two or three blocks, this is all gypsies.  It is funny, you walk down the street and everywhere you look its gypsies.  They all like to stand out in the street and smoke.  They dress really funny too, so it makes for a great site, seeing all these strange looking people out, just smoking and staring back at you”  This seals the deal for me.  I am fascinated by gypsies, and now knowing I am sitting in a boss gypsy coffee shop surrounded by the only official gypsy enclave in Mexico City, I feel like a real insider.  Yes, this is the area I would definitely like to hang out in.

Looking around, I notice something odd.  I don’t know if it is ‘gypsy’ or just plain Mexican, but the coffee place is open on two sides.  It is a corner spot, so its two sides are wide open.  To one side, directly a few feet from tables along the longest side, a street vendor is set up with her hot plate, cooking up goods for those on the sidewalk.  I think it is amusing, if you don’t like the gypsy joint, take two steps and order form the street lady.  You can eat up what she serves and stare at the people drinking gypsy coffee.  I suppose the gypsies don’t care what this lady does, along as one of their customers doesn’t call out for some street food to be handed through the open doors and windows.  This…is Mexico.

First pieces on the table; Tonya's drink, hot sauce and some rolls

We get our orders in and sit and plot our future.  Raul asks me why I do not drink the ‘waters’ here.  “You know it is not water water, but water made from different fruits” he says.  “I know, I know.  I just don’t like to drink fruit juices with my food” I explain to him.  He smirks, “Why won’t you drink fruit juice with your food?” 

“Because I am not 6 years old anymore” I say.  Raul still cannot understand why I choose not to drink fruity drinks with my meal.  “I suppose I don’t mind orange juice with my breakfast…but that is it” Tonya helps Raul to understand my idiosyncrasies by telling him, “Tim is weird, that is why.”  He laughs in agreement.  Hey, but at least I am not the guy wearing grey ankle socks with boat shoes.

Even the menus look awesome, in their stark simplicity.  I know there is no design team behind this place, just straightforward gypsy logic.  This gypsy has great, refined taste though.

The food shows up and it all looks great.  Tonya has cactus leaves, I am eating ‘molletes’, which is basically a split long roll smeared with beans and topped with cheese then put under a grill to melt the cheese to goo.  Raul has a plate full of brown, with a few dollops of cream.  He’s eating chilaquiles.  They look awesome.  “Those look fantastic dude” I say as he is his taking a bite.  He confirms my observation. “How often you eat here?” I ask.  “Once, maybe twice a week.  Usually on Saturdays and Sundays” Of course, he has had a chance to seriously sample the menu. “It is all good” he confirms.

The entertainment.

While enjoying our food, I hear a voice coming from the direction of the main entrance.  Then I hear some plucking on a guitar.  Before the guy starts singing, it has already got me irritated.  I thought he was tuning his guitar, but if he was, he did not tune one string.  This string made an obvious ‘boinnnng’ sound.  In fact, it was almost as if it belonged in a cartoon, that is how obvious and out of place it was. 

Now, guys walking into any possible place and beginning to sing is nothing new here.  Neither is seeing guys play vintage marimbas in someone’s driveway.  However, in all the places I have been and heard all sorts of serenading, none had ever had a guitar with the one plasticy, boinging string like this guy.  He sings and we talk.  He finishes a song, says thank you, enjoy your meal, then starts up again.  I look to Raul and ask, “Do you hear that, or is it me…” and just as I am asking, he hits the spastic string. “That!  Do you hear how out of tune that is?”  Raul stops and looks to the entrance where the lone mariachi is standing. He looks to me and nods, “Yes.  I hear it”

Halfway through his second song, I have to put my utensils down and turn to face this guy.  Where is the video camera when you need it most?  I pull my trusty digi-cam out and take a few snaps.  I then remember that I can get some video footage, so I switch to video mode, take aim, and let it roll.  I end up getting his closing stanza.  I suppose that will do.  I put my camera away and finish up my yummy molletes.  A few seconds later, I hear a voice repeating itself, “Thank you.  Thank you.  Enjoy your meal.  Have a nice day” The lone singer is walking through the gypsy café, hoping for a few bits of change.  He’s behind me, and I turn to him and smile.  He nods and shows lopsided grin, with one front tooth to the left of his mouth.  This obviously gives him his unique, gravelly edge over the other street serenaders.  As he rounds our table, the nerd in the corner who keeps looking at us hands the guy a coin or two.  As he is even with our table now, Tonya reaches into her purse and hands him a few more coins.  He smiles again, and his worn, leathered hands take the shiny coins, and he does a small bow of gratitude.

He gets back to the entrance and turns one last time to all of us inside.  “Thank you.  Thank you.  Enjoy your meal.  Have a nice day” and with the backlighting of the streaming sun, I see the old guy raise his guitar up like he just played a sold out house in Cleveland.  He is victorious.  He came, he sang and he conquered.  Now he is off to his next gig.

With the entertainment finished, we decide we should move on too.  We have others to meet.  The food was great and I want to be able to visit this place again. 

As we pass Raul’s building, we see his landlord.  We stop and exchange a few kind words.  I ask him, “Did Richard Burton used to live here?”  Raul turns to his landlord with big eyes, ‘Si?’  The landlord smiles, and puts his hand out to quell Raul.  This is a dead giveaway, well, the hand on hand gesture and his frosted highlights. “No, no.  He used to throw big parties in the penthouse upstairs.  All those actors from the 50’s and 60’s.  This was their favorite party place…I mean, for that time, this place was quite fancy” he tells us with a giant smile.  You cannot argue this, a Mexican queen with his frosted highlights, surely knows the true sordid tales of swinging Mexico.

Still sick.

Actual screen shot of me chatting with my brother. The computer recognizes the sickness!

It came out of nowhere on New Year’s Eve, and has yet to realize it is unwanted and unwelcome.  Tonya thinks it is the flu.  I have no idea.  All I know is that I have been scuttling around the house like an inner-city thug.  Everyday, I am clothed in sweat pants, thick wool socks, couple of t-shirts and a hoodie, with the hood over my head.  Silly, because the days have been quite pleasant, in the mid to upper 70’s. Me?  I act like I am on the verge of the point of frost.

Mexico sucks when you are sick, but thankfully, I am not sick with stomach issues.  Hopefully too, I pray I do not get sick with some parasites and stuff either.  One of my main questions is, if Alka-Seltzer cold medicine is made in Mexico, why can’t I buy it here?  I suppose it is typical Mexico, there is no rhyme or reason and never, never expect any type of continuity other than poverty and not being able to drink the water.  You can buy this type of medicine here, but not there.  The choice of goods is so erratic and unpredictable.  Not only that, but taking these assorted medicines, all I do is pee and fart.  Cold medicine truly does a number on me (though some may say it is no different than any other day)

Personally, I think I was a bit over zealous.  By midweek, I wasn’t feeling completely like crap, so I thought I was iron man and could get out to go meet some friends and run some errands.  One day, just going to the store and carting a large bag of dog food and a 20 liter jug of water laid me out for the rest of the day.  I thought I could meet friends.  By the time that was over I was an oozing mess. 

On Thursday, I went for quite a long walk with Tonya.  It was unreasonably hot, and it very possible served as my undoing.  I was wobbling by the time I got home and have not recouped.  It also opened up the faucet known as my sinuses.  Wobbling down the hot street, my language was less than proper as I was expressing the need for Kleenex with lotion.  When we arrived at a local store, they had racks of all sorts of Kleenex.  They even had advertisements for the Kleenex with lotion…but did they actually have any? No!  Tonya asked if I wanted the anti-viral Kleenex.  I think we are too late for those.  There was a box of tissues claiming to be three layers of extra softness.  These would have to do when the ones with lotion are nowhere to be found.  My nose knew no noticeable difference with the triple layer softness.  It did, however feel as if three layers of skin had been peeled away form the tissues.  Obviously, to people here, tissues that feel like thin sheets of paint-grade plywood is pretty cozy.

I rubbed lotion under my nose the rest of the night.  Each time I did, it stung it was so sore and raw.

Tonya asks me how I feel, and I just mumble, “like sh*t”.  I try not to be too optimistic because whatever it is just keep coming back, just when you think you are near the finish line, life throws the proverbial banana peel out in front of you.

Whenever friend shave called, they ask how I am.  They all say the same, “You need to drink a lot of tequila, and then go to bed…”  I would love to, to be honest.  I just feel paranoid taking medicine where the capsules look like they were put together in someone’s garage and made out of recycled plastic from old models.  I also feel strange buying medicine from guys who look like they are 15, and know more about Eminem than the drugs they are passing over the counter.

Of course, this house does me no favors either.  It is angular, cold and sterile.  Basically, the Mexican version of an old ice box but with windows.  The floors are tile, the walls concrete and it holds the cold like a champ.  I thought it was bad when it was actually cold outside; it has to be at least 10 to 15 degrees colder inside.  You bundle up and walk outside and feel like a complete idiot because you are the only guy on the block dressed for winter.  Now, even though it is warmer out, I still feel icy cold.

During the summer, it was common place for the power to go out and water to vanish.  Today, while battling this second wave of whatever it is, my lifeline to civilization went out.  The internet.  I cannot communicate with anyone in the real world.  Thanks to technology, we are able to watch cable TV over the web, but now…I just sit and listen to the sounds of a cold, austere house.  During my regular coffee time, Tonya and I were laughing about what a drab day it had been.  We were both lamenting the fact that we could not even stare at horrible reality shows, and all we could do was to stare at each other.  Of course, from her angle I imagine it to be truly tiresome, seeing this greasy haired, bleary eyed sick guy in a hoodie.  I remembered that I had a DVD of a documentary about Bollywood.  “Go get it” she said.  Halfway up the stairs I also remembered I had the documentary about the hillbilly and old time country dancing I had yet to see.  She told me to grab whichever, and a bit of common sense said she would enjoy flashy colors more than a two-bit hillbilly in the back hills of who knows where.

The documentary was just under an hour.  It was all old footage, from a special on the BBC in the early 80’s.  It showed a village with a double wedding happening; a pair of 6 year olds and a pair of 12 year olds. “How can they marry 6 year olds?” Tonya asked aghast.  With tired and fevered breath, I utter, “its India…”  They may marry kids way too young, but Indians look awesome.  By the time the 56 minutes were up, I was over taken with the evening onset of whatever this is.  I told Tonya I needed to rest, and she said she would start on supper.  I popped two pills, grabbed a blanket and lay on the couch, pulling the hoodie all the way over my eyes.  As I lay there cold, yet feeling the heat started to wash over me, I felt an opposing small bit of cold and wet at the tip of my nose.  Dash had walked up, ever so silently and stuck his nose under my hood to check on me.  He stared at me, letting me know it was his aim to get on the couch with me.  I oblige, pulling the covers back and raising my legs, like doing some sort of Jane Fonda exercise routine.  He hops up, and plops down, strategically hitting a very sensitive and private part of me.  All is weight slams onto this defenseless section.  I let out some sort of yelp.  Tonya asks if I am ok.  It takes me a minute to answer, and the pain has started me to have a fit of coughing.  I just lay there and try to drift off and get some strength.

Tonya walks in and goes to the cabinet and says, “I am having a tequila.  I know you can’t” I hear the door open, the bottle chug and a quiet sip.  It truly sucks being sick.

Home of the UFOs and other suprises.

I like Tepotzlan.  It has a cool vibe…and I do not mean hippy-dippy, new-agey seeker, UFO hunter type of way.  Truth be told, the aforementioned reasons are really on of the downsides.  I do not get the selling of Indian goods (as in East Indian) in the middle of Mexico.  In fact, what do Indians have to do with UFO’s anyway?  I have yet to see any depiction of an outer space being with a bindhi or even a turban.  Me?  I think it is just new age nonsense, mystically tying the east with outer space.

Supposedly there have been UFO sightings here.  Supposedly Tepotzlan is the home of some ‘force field’.  This is why many hippies and new-age types come to this town.  I wonder if any of these folks ever stop to just admire the beauty of the place, instead of watching the skies.  To me, it is the simple beauty and the winding streets which appeal to me.  Stand on any of the streets running up and down through town, and if you have a good vantage point, you can see the outlying mountains that surround you and the valley below.  It is lush, green and beautiful.  I also like Tepotzlan for its little surprises.

I had wanted my brother to see this place since the first time I visited.  Now that he was here, we took a day trip so he could see what it was like.  I may be speaking out of place, but I think it struck him too.

We tell him a bit about the place as we park and start to wind to the streets to the main square.  It is holiday season and the place is packed with people…we thought it would be quieter.  Still, from the moment we started down the long line of street vendors and stalls, the John Lennon ‘Power To the People” t-shirt and incense just helped to back up my earlier claims of hippie-dom.  Damon commented on how much hotter it was as opposed to the city.  This is true, it was very warm.  The breakdown between seasons and temperatures always frustrates me.  Nowhere should be this warm at the tail-end of December!

We have no plans but to amble around and let Damon see what there is to be seen.  We make our way around the square, looking at and smelling all the various treats. For the most part, it is typical fare of any market in any Mexican town, complete with meat and guts hanging out in the sun (seriously, who buys this?).  As we start twisting through the back of the market we turn into the church yard. In Mexico, if there is an old church around, you should always take a look to see what surprises may be inside.

It has a big yard, walled in on all sides.  It is pretty non-eventful.  The ground was brown and yellow, as the heat and sun had killed off the grass.  There is not too much to see, so it is down the long main walkway to the chapel.  Cameras in hand, we approach the main building and notice a few people dressed in formal attire sitting outside.  Tonya also pointed out four old church bells, grouped in the dirt right outside the main entrance.  I noticed the little girl in her gown talking with a few others who were dressed up.  “There must be a wedding” Tonya said.

Weddings in churches here are a constant.  I can’t tell you how many times we have walked up to an old church only to crash in on a couple exchanging vows.  There is always a first though, like to day.  As we stepped over the old wooden door frame, there was a small crowd inside, and yes, a couple in the middle of the aisle exchanging their vows.  I suppose we stepped in right as they finished, because the new bride and groom both stood up and stood next to the priest.  It was then that the magic happened.  As part of the service, immediately after the couple became man and wife, a wonderful sound echoed through the chapel.  A band, to the right of the chapel, started playing some wedding music.  I was moved.  Hearing this traditional music played in a big old church, with the brass echoing and flowing through the cathedral was breathtaking.  It was a fantastic sight to see the young couple and their families and friends as they started to mingle.  Yes, I think this was when my heart leapt.  I was fixated, staring at the couple and letting the music envelope me.  I had never heard anything like this, and it was nothing short of amazing.  I was not the only one feeling this, as Damon and Tonya were both fixated with a smile on their face and glowing.

There is no way anyone could resist their true love and the ceremony of marriage seeing and hearing this.  It was beautiful.  This was the true romantic type of wedding one would think of, not some kind of Tommy and Pam wedding on the beach.  No, this is not the typical Mexican wedding you hear of in the news.  This was glorious.  I did not want to leave.  I want a wedding like this.

After the wedding.

Church hallway

As hard as it was to walk away from, we managed to pull ourselves away and to see what else was to be had.  I peeked around the side of the main chapel and told Damon and Tonya to come with me and see what is down this way.  It was another part of the church that you could tour, made into a small museum.  As we started down the arched walkways, the sound of the horns playing could still be heard.  Lovely.  We walked though the hallways and up the stairs.  On the big, empty landing, there sat one of those Mexicans who look Korean.  This guy looked really Korean because he had two little sprouts of white whiskers coming out atop both sides of his mouth.  Those kinds of crazy Asian style wise-man moustaches.  He had a telescope set up and a small plastic Tupperware container with a piece of paper taped to it.  For 3 pesos you could look through the telescope up into the mountains and see the famous ruins of Tepotzlan.  Likewise, you can climb for an hour up the side of a mountain to see it as well.  We pay the man, and he gives us three tickets and points to the eye piece.

You see this through the telescope (ruin small grey blip on upper right)

This is it?  This is where the UFOs flock too?  This is what the seekers make their pilgrimage too?  A small, stacked, concrete looking structure with a bunch of back packers sitting on it, swinging their feet.  What a let down.  It looked like the base of any sculpture in any big city park.  Square, stacked up two or three layers, and looked like concrete.  Further left of the ruin I could see a white crucifix jutting out among the steep cliff sides.  This was more captivating that the rest stop on top of the mountain that I had just viewed via telescope.  I stand up and shrug my shoulders.  The Korean looking Mexican smiled at me. I smiled back and told him ‘Gracias’.  He nodded his head with pleasure.  Tonya laughed about the fact that we all stood there and looked into his telescope and he insisted on handing us three tickets.

Damon.

We walked around and clowned around.  I was leaning out a window looking onto the churchyard below, when Damon said, “Hey.  I will go lean out the other window and you take a picture, ok?”  Sounds good.  The amusement we get from doing dumb things is priceless.  After our idiot snaps, we walk into another room where I notice a giant mural, all made up of beans and rice.  Awesome.  I pull Damon aside and show him. No one ever thinks to take pictures of their beans and rice when they eat…but glue them all together and make a giant mural out of them and wow, it is art!

Mural of rice and beans

There was a small hallway we walked by, and I thought it had yet to be ventured in to.  I start down the dark hall and call for Tonya and Damon.  It led to a sunny room. No big deal.  I decide to walk down another hall form the sunny room. Pay day!  Here was a simple room with real meaning.  Against the back wall there were four stalls.  A thick stone wall separated each compartment.  The small stone bench in each stall had a hole in the middle. Ahhh!  We had stumbled onto the toilets of the priests!  These were old toilets and it was fantastic.  Above each toilet was an old faded painted frame on the wall, with most of the words faded or worn away.  Each of these painted frames had its own little poem about proper potty etiquette.  The original poems were posted on small plaques, behind the ropes which kept you from inspecting the toilets up close. 

Old toilets

I find it comforting to know that even way back when, holy men had a sense of humor about what one does in the bathroom.  Surely they too, laughed at farts.

It was another fantastic discovery poking around this church today.  From the decorated arched hallways to the bean and rice mural, to the ancient toilets. Fantastic.  As we started our way down from the upper story, you could hear the wedding party making their procession out of the chapel and through the yard.  The lovely sounds of the horns floating around the church yard followed them as they left. Damon said we should hurry, in hopes of catching the sight.

By the time we got back outside, the wedding was over and the couple long gone.  There were some flowers strewn over the main entry way, and several floral arrangements were outside the door.  A woman and her son came and started to gather the arrangements and haul them away.  I am assuming for the reception at some other place.

After all this excitement, we all had to pee.  It was imperative to find some public restrooms before we could continue our fun.  Three pesos grants you entry to pee.  Typical though, no hand towels.  I stand with dripping hands wondering what to do.  It was at that moment I realized that the sweatshirt I had taken off earlier would now come in very handy as a hand towel.  As Damon was washing his hands, I passed on this bit of advice to him too, “Use your sweatshirt…it makes a great towel”

Tonya wants to peep inside the market for a bite to eat. “Are you guys ok with this?  Are you afraid to eat here?” she asks.  We duck our heads and follow her under all the different colored tarps that act as a roof.  She says she knows this one stall, and tells us that this is where we will grab a bite.  There are two women standing by a portable flat grill.  Food is spread out on their makeshift counter tops.  The pork, rolled up, is already drying out.  Flies bob from dish to dish and the two women stand with their hand behind their back, smiling.  When they realize we are eyeing up food, they tell us to sit, and motion for us to squeeze into there designated area.  It is tight.  I sit with my legs akimbo, and feet pointed out.  Looking over the bowls and plates laid out along the counter, my decision is simple.  Nothing perishable please.  No need to look at the menu really, just give me a bean one and a cheese one.  Damon follows my lead, and we order a simple cheese quesadilla and a bean tlacoyo.

Tight fit. Thems my feets.

Our cook preparing our food...

Quesadillas on the grill (fridge not pictured)

Tonya asks us again if we are afraid.  I look to Damon.  He frowns and says he isn’t.  I let his remark stand for mine as well.  I watch the women start to make our food.  The quesadillas are easy enough.  One lady cuts some cheese strips, wraps it in a tortilla then the other lady slaps them on the griddle.  When the ‘chef’ makes the tlacoyo, it is a more labor intensive process.  She takes a ball of the blue corn and places it in the press.  She flattens out the tortilla, and begins to shape it.  The other girl warms the beans.  For that little extra something, they have to look in the fridge.  The fridge is actually the shelves to the left, stacked with old yogurt containers.  The younger girl bends over, reaches into the shelf and pulls out an old yogurt container.  She takes the lid off, puts her nose to the container and sniffs. That’s the stuff!  She stickers her hand in and adds some of the stuff to the beans.  I look to Damon to see if he saw what I just saw. “Nice” We nervously laugh at the sight of the stored food. Hey!  It is better than the food sitting out on the table for everyone to stare at, cough on and serving as landing strips for wayward flies.

Eye level of the selections on hand

When the women laid our food in front of us, Damon quips at the specially made tlacoyos.  “They look like old moccasins” he says matter-of-factly, staring down at his blue-ish flat plop on wax paper.  Looks didn’t matter though, as both items were tasty and welcomed.   We had a wonderful time.  Now, with some food in our bellies we were ready to venture home.  With no where else needed to go, we get up and amble back to where we parked the car.  On the way back we pass a stall selling cosmetics and creams. Tonya grabs my arm and I hear “Gross!”  We stop and look.  She points and a handwritten note. “You want to buy some cream made from snail slime?” she asks. I think my brother and I had the same reply, “WHAT?”  Somewhat excited, Tonya pointed at the scrawl and said, “Look!  A cream made from snail slime.  Isn’t that gross?”  It is…but whoever wrote the note says it is great for wrinkles.

How NOT to end the year.

Damon’s last day here fell on New Year’s Eve. This meant that any last minute sightseeing and shopping had to be done on this day, and then keep an eye on any possible festivities that would fall on the evening.

Initially, the plan was to get up and go eat some churros at this great little place nearby. This, however, was unwound almost as soon as everyone was up. Damon was hungry, Tonya was…well, doing something and I was concerned about all staying happy. Churros do not fill one up, so this was scratched immediately. In hindsight, this change would set the pace for the rest of the day. Maybe, it was a small omen…scratching churros meant the day would have a dark cloud over it.

We end up eating biscuits form a local bakery. There is a small list of things that Damon needs to pick up for the family at home, as well as some things for his self. We decide to do a hit and run mission to get these out of the way. We tell Tonya we would be back in time for Damon to do his online check-in at 2pm.

We make good time, talking about this and that along the way. It is a beautiful day and yet noticeably slower than usual. Many Mexicans are out of the city and this had made for pleasant times in travelling around the city. Neither of us was thinking ahead, that when we got to where we needed to be and were ready to buy the goods, how do we ask this or that? What does this mean? We go to assorted street merchants sniffing out the necessary items, and of course, we have no idea how to talk about sole inserts. Who teaches you these things? We manage in spite of the lack of knowledge. Then the question comes up, “How do you say ‘mailing tube’” Of course, we laugh at the thought and at the concoctions that come up trying to pair words together that would make sense. It was funny seeing Damon ask where to buy a carton of cigarettes. Of course, when doing so, hearing the salesgirl explain what was what was entertaining. We had no idea what she was saying, just stood there and smiled. Of course, at the closing of the transaction, we’re always mindful to say ‘Gracias’. Undoubtedly, this usually drew a big smile from whoever we were dealing with. I can imagine what a sight it must be for them, two lanky, goony guys talking amongst themselves and trying to debate which item is better, and in turn, convey concerns and interests to which ever vendor has the fortunate pleasure of dealing with us. Hey…we try! At least we just didn’t shrug our shoulders and say “Que?” If nothing else, we get great entertainment out of the adventures. Mission accomplished, and we arrive back home with 5 minutes to spare.

Damon checks in and Tonya says she will shower. She doesn’t want to go on the sightseeing adventure though. Then the topic of lunch is at hand. Tortas seem to be the easiest answer…and Tonya is not in the mood for that. We have nothing here. All things point to tortas. Tonya declines, but two hungry guys forge on. Literally, we are backtracking on the very steps we had taken this morning. Oddly enough, though we opted out on churros, we are now heading to the exact same spot for our lunch. This place makes great tortas. Damon commented on his just after digging in. They are my favorite tortas that I have tasted here.

Lunchtime conversation is over our woes. Are we having our mid-life crisis now? Maybe, but we exchange stories and talk one another up. Damon glances up and notices the sketch in a frame above our table, “Hey. Look! That is the church we were in yesterday, at Tepotzlan.” He adjusts himself in his seat and grabs his camera, “I am going to play ‘turista’” he says, and stands and snaps a photo of the sketch. He sits back down and comments on how tasty the torta is, and how he is even digging his mineral water in a can. Luckily, the first place we want to go to is literally down the street. Agreeing we are finished, we are both up and making strides to go sightseeing.

Walking in to the convent, they ask if we will take pictures, “yes”. The ask us to walk on through. This was an added bonus. “Why didn’t they charge us?” Damon asked. I don’t know, but I am happy none the less. This is a great place and they have some really fantastic old paintings here. I am anxious to show Damon the portraits of people with sayings coming twirling out of their mouths. He had commented on how he wanted to see some of these from photos he had seen. Now, he has the chance to see them in real life. Sadly, some of the paintings were gone, on a travelling exhibition to Spain. It is also a bit of a drag that the upstairs was closed of for renovations. He is only get half of the tour. Luckily, they had expanded the old convent to join on to the house next door, which housed an exhibition of Mexican revolutionary photographs. Damon had wanted to see some, so now is his chance. He gets to see the doctor holding up an amputated leg, a Zapatista hung form a tree, a wild bunch riding into town and several shots of guys dressed in rags with the biggest sombreros you have ever seen. One particular style of head wear Damon takes a particular liking to, “Do you like the sombreros that have the leaning cone?” he asks as he points to the silly hats.

Maries on hand. It is overwhelming. We wind downstairs into the crypts and get to looking at the mummies. Damon takes his time, and leans over, peering into each old coffin, sizing up the once vibrant citizens. “Look at his hands” he says, pointing at a mummy, “Look at his fingers”. A few seconds later, he calls attention to another’s feet. “Look…this one still has hair”. Gross. The rotted skull still has plugs of hair clinging to the dried skin. After the room has been circled, we head back up and out, on to our next mission.

It may not sound like much, but there is a house nearby which houses a few curiosities. The most obvious one is a two story fountain made out of old china, plates and figurines. The same home also has an eclectic collection of art; one piece is from a Dutch school of painting, very similar to the Bosch style of weirdness. It seems that the couple who lived here were somewhat important, they were definitely loaded and had a great pad. A few days earlier we were eyeing up tracksuit tops with the Lion of Judah on them. There is a constant ongoing joke of Rastafarianism between us. This made me recall the freakiest thing I had seen at this ‘fountain’ house. I told Damon that the owner was more ‘dread’ than he could imagine. One day, while at this house (with my mother, as a matter of fact) I noticed a photo of the husband and wife with an odd character in the middle. It was Haile Selassie! This guy was full-on dread! Who would have thought that the dread figure head would be in the same house with the giant fountain of plates! This alone was reason enough to show my brother. We traipse up a few blocks to locked gates. Damon would have to miss the photo of Haile Selassie and seeing the fountain of plates. We carry on talking and chatting and decide that enough time has been consumed that it was now nearing our regular coffee time.

We go home briefly and check in. We take the dogs out for a walk and decide to grab a coffee. It is around 5pm, and Tonya has been pretty much non-existent today. I know this cannot be good. We head out again and go for our coffee. We chat about Damon’s time here. He is a bit down, and misses his pups. He is anxious to get back to the dogs.

After an hour or so, we go back home again. Inside, I notice that Tonya is yet again, a non-factor. I have no idea where she is or what she is doing. After a while, it becomes clear that she is upstairs on the phone. As she comes downstairs, the dark cloud which has developed earlier in the day when we passed on churros, starts to open up and unleash hell. We have an argument. We have nothing to eat in the house, and we have no commitment to a party that we were invited to this evening. It appears that Tonya has been fielding calls throughout the day regarding this soiree. Both Damon and I had expressed a very clear non-interest in attending. After bickering over useless stuff for a bit, we come to the conclusion that the night would be spent at home, and most probably with a foul mood. It also becomes evident that a trip to the store would have to be made if were to have dinner. I go up and ask Damon if he wants to head out with me to go get some items so we can eat. He agrees. Once again, we head out the door to retrace our steps for the third time that day, to head to the grocery store for dinner items.

Upon our return, Tonya had prepped some stuff for pasta, and was ready to begin cooking. I noticed a strange feeling in my chest, as if I was about to cough. It was well after 7pm now, and Tonya had declared 7pm as ‘tequila time’. So, in hopes of having a better evening I ask the question, “What time is it?” and upon getting an answer, Damon and Tonya immediately agreed to have tequila.

Thankfully, dinner was quite nice and plenty of conversation. We were all relaxed now. Having food in your belly can do wonders for an attitude. Even though I am full, I am starting to cough a bit. Kind of like when you get a peanut in your throat of something goes down the wrong pipe. Not so much a cough, but a hack…like a half-expressed laugh. “I hope I am not going to get sick now” I say. “What if I picked up TB today…” Damon interrupts, “What? You think you got it from being too close to those mummies or something?” He nailed it. All I knew was that somewhere, someone had passed on a germ to me that was multiplying and making itself comfortable. It could have been the mummies, or it could have been the German guy with dirty hands, who made our lunch a day or so earlier. Something was in me and I knew it would not go peacefully into the night.

Earlier in the week, Tonya and I had joked how we would probably be sitting on the couch watching the crap show on Bravo TV, ‘Andy Cohen’s 2010 Wig Drop’ Yes, and that is exactly what we wound up doing. So this is it! This is how we end the year and my brother’s visit, by sitting on the couch watching a flaming queer host a wig drop. There were some laughs and chuckles, and Damon asked who the different guests were. Mind you, he doesn’t watch the ‘Housewives’ of anything. My coughing outnumbered the laughs by a far greater margin. By 11pm, the show was over. The wine was finished and apparently, so were we. The question echoed around the room, “is that it? You guys ready to go to bed…” Damon got up and started upstairs first. We would celebrate New Years Eve by already being cozy up in bed by the time midnight struck.

I must have drifted off pretty quick. The day was long and emotionally hard. The arguing was a real downer, and having whatever germ making itself at home in my chest was a real concern. I figured rest would do me good.

I am not sure what time it was, but I woke up to the sound of fireworks in the distance. It was then I realized how bad I was feeling. From whatever time it was at this very moment, I would not sleep again. I lay in bed, my body aching and a fever coming on. Although my eyes were closed, I knew the temperature was rising by the feeling on the inside of my eye lids. They felt hot. My eyes were watery, and every so often they would release a tear. Each time I would try to re-adjust, it seemed like a chore. My fingers were aching! I had to get up and pee. I could hardly walk. It felt like I was trying to move and my limbs were like giant heavy tree trunks. Tonya asked how I felt. She told me to take some medicine. I grabbed some out of the bathroom cabinet and then took a swig form the bottle of water on the dresser (who knows how old that was!)

When I am sick, I am complete baby. I know this…and so does anyone else who has been around me during such times. As I crawl back into bed I am sure I was over dramatizing the ordeal, but it seemed worth it to me. I found my best position and began to buckle in for the rest of the sleepless night. I could not go to the other room, because Damon was in there. I did not want to go downstairs because it was too cold. I had no option but to toss and turn, in hopes that I would eventually fall asleep. I can’t even recall what I was thinking of. I do know that I was hoping to at least have those far-out dreams you do when you have a fever. I tried to lull myself to a peaceful sleep by imaging what an ideal sick room would be like. A big cozy bed, the smell of lavender, nice pillows…then I realized I was just picturing the elaborate bedrooms you always see on Masterpiece Theater, in those boring English period pieces. I was tethered to reality when tiny beads of sweat would form up and then slowly drip of my back and legs. It was horrible. I hate that feeling. Then I felt like the veins in the back of my neck were getting tighter and tighter, like they were drying out and pulling my head taught as they dried. My eyes were hurting. Once In a while I would open the heavy, molten lids to peer at the window with dread and an odd hope that the sun would be rising.

It was painfully obvious, this was not a New Years celebration, and this is truly not the way to end a year. I knew that by the time morning came I would be a complete wreck. I felt somewhat ashamed and dreaded the thought of actually starting out the New Year sick. Still, if it were to be, I tried to console myself with the thought that the only way left to go from this very point, was up!