Sonia

Sonia is a bit of a mystery.  We met her a while back when a small group of women came to visit Tonya in regards to her mother.  That is about it.  Odd, because after the first time she came over and had coffee and chatted, we both said how much we liked her.  After that visit, she had rang a few times and chatted with Tonya, but we had not seen her anymore.

Last week we were invited to another friend’s house for tea and then ‘something stronger’.  Sonia showed up.  Again after our time talking and gossiping, we left thinking how we must keep up a relationship with Sonia.  Tonya muses aloud, “How do these ladies even know my mom?”

Today, while in the middle of a heated discussion the phone rang.  Tonya went and looked at the caller ID, she didn’t recognize the number and said she would not answer it, and then she suddenly picked up.  I could tell by the change in her voice something had caught her off guard.  She hung up and said, ‘That was Sonia, she is on her way over.  She said she has something she wants to give us” and with that, a full scale clean up was underway.  In a flash, the place was back to a state of decency and our once heated talk was obviously put on ice.

Sonia comes in with a magazine in hand.  She is older, and moves slow and carefully.  I ask her where she would like to sit, and offer her my seat. “It’s OK” I tell her, “We have plenty of places to sit” She sits and asks for a bit of water.  Tonya fetches her a glass and we all pull our chairs up to the table and begin. One of the first things up was Tonya asking, “How do you all know my mom?”

In our last visit (over tea and…) we had talked about a certain town we wanted to visit.  Sonia had just gotten a new cooking magazine and it just so happened that the cook who puts this magazine out had just visited the place we want to visit.  Sonia saw this and thought we would like to read about it.  “Do you like pasta?” she also asks.  Little does she know that we are fiends for pasta, “Look.  There are many nice recipes in there and even a story about the history of pasta” Perfect.  She is after our hearts, and we have similar notions on her.

She asks about the dogs.  She is a big dog fan, and was quite stricken with our herd.  I had told her last time we saw her, she is welcome anytime…even if it is just to say hello to the dogs.  I was actually quite surprised at our last visit, that one of the first things she asked about was the dogs.  Obviously, she is a dog lover.  She was holding some papers all this while.  She lays them on the table and says, “I know you probably already know everything about Greyhounds and Whippets, but I saw this in a National geographic and I copied it for you to read” and she hands us the articles. I was thrilled!  This in turn, led to a lengthy discussion about dogs.  Tonya tells her about some footage we had just seen from the recent Japan tragedy, where a dog sat diligently by the side of his wounded friend, another dog.  It was amazing footage, as the healthy dog reaches over at one point, like he was human, and actually petted the wounded dog, as if to calm and reassure him.

As we sit and talk, Sonia starts to unravel.  She is very interesting indeed.  She was a big fan of PBS, and heavily into Masterpiece Theater.  She told us of how upset she was when Mexico quit carrying the channel.  She loves music, and started to tell a tale about Beethoven.  This leads to talks about Steinways, and she reminisces about her time in New York as a young woman, the Steinway manufacturing place in New York City.  

How we go from Steinways and Beethoven to earthquakes, I don’t know.  Personally, I am always curious to ask the natives here about ‘the big one’ in 1985.  Yes, she was here, yes she felt it too.  I am more than happy to get a brief history lesson and first hand encounter of the event.  Interesting to hear her side, as she sat in her home with no power and received phone calls as her relatives found out more from the radio, which buildings had collapsed and which parts of town were demolished.  She said although she felt it on this side of town, she had no idea of the horrors that had truly taken place.  The devastation was unimaginable, as was the loss of life.

Sonia speaks very good English.  I ask how she manages to stay up on it.  She tells of how she learned it (from magazines) and the help from PBS and other English television shows.  By the time she went to New York, “I felt totally comfortable with English” she says, it was almost second nature to her.  “I love to read, ever since I was a little girl I read all that I could” she adds, obviously the endless piles of books enforced her ability.  She loves French too.  However, as an older lady, she says the friends she had who spoke French have either moved away or died.  She tells an interesting story of how her mother spoke French and took her to France as a young girl.  She was mesmerized by Paris and seeing her mother talk to everyone on the train. “When I get back to Mexico, I am going to learn that language” she said.  She was very determined, and used the same methods as she had with English.  She admits that as a young girl she had loved many French songs she had heard, but had no idea what they were saying. “I knew words” she says, but not the meanings.  She smiles and then recounts of how as she learned French, she could finally understand the songs she used to sing.

I have been asking her intermittently if she would like coffee or tea.  Each time she politely refuses.  I excuse myself and tell her I am going to make myself one.  A few minutes later, when the water is ready I ask once more.  She concedes, “I would love a coffee” she says.  This catches me off guard.  All along she has declined, so I opt for the bachelor style, instant coffee.  I stand in the kitchen and blurt out, “It’s Nescafe”.  She yells back, “It’s ok”

We move on to food.  Tonya has been toying with the idea of opening a small place.  “I know this Italian girl who opened up a small place near where I work” she says. “She serves lovely pasta and lasagnas.  I will have to introduce you to her” she tells Tonya.  I ask her if the place she is speaking of is the one I am thinking of.  It is!   The conversation turns to the owner and her little dog and how she has expanded her restaurant. 

I ask Sonia about some historical places in the part of town where she works, in Coyoacan.  I find myself gathering facts and trivia about this city on an almost weekly basis.  Yes, I pride myself at my Mexican historical knowledge and trivia…even if I hate the language and battle it on a daily basis.  There is another small church there, that Cortez had built as well as the famous house where he murdered his mistress.

This is a perfect situation that illustrates what I do love about meeting people here; Sonia smiles and tells me with great detail about how to find this small park, and in this park is where she believes the small church is.  Now, with raised eyebrows, she tells me “The house you ask of, where Cortez murdered his mistress, my aunt lives in that house”  She is smiling and continues on, “I will talk to her and arrange to take you two there to see it”. Amazing.  Wait though, the historical lineage gets crazier.  Her aunt studied under Diego Rivera and her husband studied under Frida Kahlo.  He was one of the three ‘Fridos’, as they call them, a select few artists who became famous after studying with Frida.  She tells us some more historical background about how the couple met and other odd facts about the whole ‘scene’ at the time.

A few hours have now passed since Sonia showed up bearing gifts.  “I hadn’t planned on staying long; I wanted to get home before it got too dark.  I am sorry if I took too much of your time” she says.  I don’t know about Tonya, but I shoot down the nonsense with a brisk, “Never. Sonia, we loved having you here.  You come over anytime” She says again, how she is excited about taking us to eat lasagna and meeting the Italian lady at the restaurant.  We all agree that this is a great idea.  She gets up and walks to the couch.  She reaches out to Winston, as he stands to see what is going on.  She talks softly to him and pets him with great tenderness.

As we walk her to the door, we see it is pretty dark, too dark for an older woman to walk home in. We tell her we will give her a ride, and she says not to go out of our way.  It is no big deal.  I run up and grab my keys and walk with her out to the car.  This has been a very unexpected and pleasant surprise to say the least.

Fear of Flying

I hate flying.  I am not too sure why, aside from the fact that you are at a complete loss if the plane goes down. Everything is left up to those two guys sitting up front, and they have you a long way up off the ground.  Those simple thoughts aside, I think it is more down to a comfort thing as far as I am concerned…well, that and a few more neurotic points.

I recently flew home and came face to face with this recurring fear.  Of course, it does not help to quell ones’ nerves when you walk into the airport restroom for one of many pre-flight nervous pees and a little sweaty Mexican is standing in the corner by the sink, staring blankly in the mirror and clutching a beat up old guitar.  I catch sight of him as I walk in.  I do my business and as I step up to the sink I watch him in the mirror.  He stands there.  Sweat is running down his face.  He is holding his guitar in front of him.  He closes his eyes every so often then re-opens them to be petrified that he is still there and waiting on his flight too.  To me, he looks like a poor villager.  Perhaps this is his first flight.  I am just as scared as he is, but I am not freaking out in a public bathroom.  Still, I feel for the guy.

I sit in the waiting area, moaning about how Mexico City’s airport sucks.  It is hot in here and this place has no water fountains.  How can you relax in an atmosphere like this?  The nervous Mexican from the restroom walks past me.  I nudge Tonya and say, hey!  That is the guy I told you about” She says something typical like, “Oh…poor thing”

As our boarding time nears, Tonya points at the pilots about to board our plane. “Look.  Do they look drunk to you?  It looks like somebody had a drink to me!” she says. Great.  The flushed faced kid and old drunk are going to be in charge of my life now.  I squirm in my seat and try to stay cool, “Nah. Not really” I say in hopes that it will erase whatever amount of drinks they may have had.

I dreaded this flight because our seats were in the second to the last row.  I was going to be seated by the window.  I need an aisle seat.  I knew I would be uneasy for the flight.  On the bright side, I console myself with the proven statistics of the safest place to be on a plane if it goes down is at the back.  This is not the place to be when you are 6’7” and have very long legs.

Oddly enough, the panicked Mexican guy I saw in the bathrooms comes walking down the aisle.  He stows his old beat up guitar in the overhead compartment midway down the plane, and nervously makes his way towards the back.  Yes, the nervous guitar player’s seat is on the last row, directly behind me.   I wonder if he will start crying or freaking out during the flight, Lord knows he was feeling pretty scared when I saw him in the restroom.

Our take off was a bit odd.  As the plane flew down the runway, it tugged form right to left and wobbled as it left the ground. “Amateur” I thought, “I hope he gets his act together by the time he lands” It is while in mid air that I start to realize why I am afraid of flying.

I hate being cramped.  I hate breathing others peoples exhaled air. I hate smelling other people because on a plane, they usually do not smell nice.  I hate worrying who will sit next to you.  We were lucky.  A nice lady who sat quietly and worked on her computer the whole time.

I dread airplane food.  I read story after story about whole planes full of passengers falling ill from some rotten food they ate. Me?  I never will touch anything remotely related to seafood while flying.  I worry about what if I eat this chicken sandwich and get sick?  Chances are, everyone who eats them will get sick and that means we will all be vying for toilet time all at once.  This frightens me tremendously.  I pull my stale buns apart and pick at the cheese.  Surely that is pretty safe…I even eat a few bites of the stale bun.  They tried to be ‘gourmet’, but failed miserably.

I get nervous over silly things, especially over the fact of the line that starts building for the toilets the closer you get to landing.  I do not like feeling trapped, and a cluttered aisle freaks me out and is then compounded with the possibility of having to pee really bad on top of it.

I sat and looked out the window for most of the flight.  I was reminded again how much iPod ear buds suck when you fly.  Your ears hurt and you don’t get to hear your music.

The landing was rough.  Just as in the take off, he drops the plane then stalls, and it pulls from left to right.  As we hit the runway the plane jerks from side to side and he hits the brakes.  Perhaps Tonya was right, the young pilot was flush from just having tried several types of tequila before taking the wheel.

Our flight is delayed about 40 minutes or so for our trip home. Delayed flights make me nervous too.  I start to question why the plane is late?  Will they have time to do the pre-flight inspections?  Will the pilot and crew be all hasty and irresponsible?

This flight back brought a new fear into my book.  This time we had the very last row and on the same side.  This flight taught me the fear of sitting at the back when truly provincial Mexicans get on board.  I now appreciate those cultures that fly regularly and understand in cabin etiquette and behavior.  When I saw the old wrinkled lady with skin like leather walking down the aisle, I sensed it would be trouble.  Her grey hair in two braids and a small infant slung over her chest in a blanket tied around her shoulders.  Obviously, by carrying a baby in this ancient manner, she was new to this flying game.

I could hear a kid screaming and crying but never saw him.  The old lady had a younger girl with her, obviously her daughter.  They stood in the aisle and raffled through their boarding passes, all the while, the younger girl kept shouting at the crying kid who was seated apart from the confused parents and grandma.  The rest of the passengers were all standing prone, while these bumpkins yelled at the crying kid and at each other.  We had not even taxied yet and I was about to go ballistic.  Finally, a stewardess yelled at the simple folk and told them to get their act together.  The horde behind them were getting red with anger too, as you could see the agitation as they veered from side to side to peer down the aisle to see what was causing the problem and who was crying.

I started to think this flight would be a nightmare.  I was worried that after the stewardess yelled at them, the old lady carrying the baby in the ancient Mayan way would sit next to us in the empty seat.  Thank God, no!  Some young Mexican girl with ripped jeans and streaked hair was our guest.

For the trip back, we had ice cold turkey sandwiches with a small bag of baby carrots.  No iPod ear buds either. I had come prepared and bought a new pair of headphones while in Houston.  Tonya read her People magazines and new cookbooks and I listened to a bit of music and got a sore neck staring out the window.  Overall, the flight back was ok, but alas, a new lesson was learned.

Never put an old Mexican woman without flying experience in the very last row with a window seat.  As soon as the flight landed and came to a halt, she stood and complained.  She did not understand that 30 rows of seats in front of you had to clear out before you did.  She motioned with her hands and looked like she was about to cry as she argued with the passengers beside her.  She wanted out, but refused to see that the whole aisle was full of people and us chumps at the back could do nothing but sit and wait.  Once again, a stewardess had to yell at the old woman, who still stood defiant and complained, even though she would end up waiting until even after we had emptied out of the plane.

Guero on a Bike!

Raul and I are going to check out record shops.  He had an idea that I come over to his place and we go scope some out on bike.  This would allow us a ‘street level’ view of the people and places of local neighborhoods along the way.  I was kind of jazzed about this prospect of riding a bike around Mexico City.  Likewise, I thought it was a bit daring…anyone who has ever been here and seen these idiots drive; you know exactly what I mean.

I meet Raul at a place close to his, a place where I can park easily.  We walk back to his place talking nonsense.  We get to his place, walk through the lobby and out to the parking spot.  There are two bikes.  He passes the red one over to me, “It’s my girl’s, but it should work.  Try it out” he said.  I hop on and do a few small loops in the parking area. Raul will be riding a Peugeot. Mine is a no name thing. “It’s OK, a bit low, but I’ll manage” I say.  In truth, the handlebars were very small.  I was not used to such small handlebars.

You ever notice how Mexicans and blacks ride bikes that are too small for them?  I kind of felt that way when I was riding this bike.  I felt like I should be wearing gold chains and perhaps have a baseball cap skewed the wrong way on my head while riding this thing.  The difference is: this is a 10-speed style, not some kid bike with a gang member on it.  Good enough, off we go on the adventure.

We don’t get far before my seat goes all wobbly.  It shifts back and the horn of the seat almost enters my butt at the worst moment possible.  I am very uncomfortable, and I am trying to maneuver through crazy Mexican drivers while trying to maintain composer with an obvious ‘compromising’ position apparent to anyone with two eyes.  “Hey! Raul!” I yell at him as he is leading the way. This was not going to work.  Luckily, we were at a spot he wanted to show me.  There was a sushi restaurant next door. “Maybe you can ask the Chinaman for a wrench” I said.  “Yeah, maybe he has something” Raul replies as we put the bikes together and stand next to a bench.  He looks at me and says, “You know, Chinaman is not the correct term.  Maybe you should use Asian –American” he says.  I look at the sushi sign.  It says ‘Osaka’.  I could care less about political correctness, I look at Raul and say, “Well…Asian American is stupid, since we are in Mexico….anyway, the sign says ‘Osaka’, so he should be Japanese”  Raul goes and talks to him and he comes out and we are introduced to one another. His name is William.  That is not very Japanese or Asian for that matter.  I sit and watch the discussion amused at a Japanese guy speaking Spanish.  When we’re done, we shake hands, and I try to be accommodating, so I bow and smile.  He smiles, and laughs a little, then William bows and smiles at me and shakes my hand again.  Raul suggests we backtrack to his restaurant and try and repair the bike.

We grab a quick sandwich while at his place.  He says I should take the bike from the café.  It is a total Pee-Wee Herman style bike.  Low and slow, it is only missing tassels from the handlebars to be complete.  He tells me to try it out, and when I do, a local sitting in front of the café starts laughing. “See how stupid I look, even he’s laughing” I say to Raul as I take it for a spin to the end of the street.  Raul tells me to not to worry, and that while we go scope out some shops, he’ll have another guy take the broken bike to get repaired.  He asks if I am ready after my test ride.  I give the thumbs up and we ride off towards the trendy neighborhood of Condesa.  Those of you who saw a lanky awkward guy wearing a reggae themed t-shirt riding a bike too small for him and seeing his knees hit the handle bars…that was me.  As we neared our destination, I hear Raul utter a simple “Oh…” and then it was followed by a stern “shit!”  He had a flat.  Lucky for us, we were at the prime spot where we are in the middle of what we needed to do.  The record shop had closed and moved on.  He asked if I could lend him a few bucks and we would go to the park, to a nearby bike shop.  He walks his bike and I stroll along beside him, half riding and half pushing myself along with my big feet.  I brought some crackers in case I got hungry, and while the bike guy is repairing his flat, I pull out my crackers.  I give Raul a pack and as we both munch crackers, we both admit we’re starving.  After his bike is ready, Raul suggests we go back by the café and get a sandwich.  I happily agree.

We sit in front of his café and talk about things.  His co-worker brings back the other bike.  It is repaired, and the worker makes a point to say that the new seat is ‘Italian’.  Well…it ain’t Mexican, so it must be of some quality I concur.  Raul grabs a bag of cookies and eats all but one.  He then hands the bag to me, “Oh…how nice. Dessert?” I ask.   He laughs and says ‘yes’.  Nice that he saved me one out of about eight.  Raul then says that we should now ride into the historic part of the city. I look at him and say ok, “Do you think it is safe for a guero on a bike?”  Raul gets a cheap laugh, and looks at me and says, “Yes.  I think it is even ok for a guero on a bike”

Before I know it we are on one of the most important streets in the city, Reforma.  It is the street which is home to many embassies and business headquarters.   It is also the street on which the famous golden angel resides.  I pedal along being careful to steady those tiny handlebars.  I am amused and giggle to myself that I am riding a bike down one of Mexico City’s biggest and most important streets.  Who would have ever thought?  I also consider the fact that maybe this means that I am really staring to feel comfortable here.  That strikes an icy cold fear in my heart.  I keep peddling. 

We are riding in front of Bellas Artes in no time.  The very center of the city is so close.  My eyes are burning and I feel as if I am on the verge of being light headed from all the exhaust.  I try to grab a breath of clean air when we hit a stretch of road where there is a gap in the traffic.  No use.  Riding a bike is a great experience in this city, it is truly a great way to see things up close, but it is hell on your eyes and lungs.

As soon as we reach the historical center, cops on both side of the street point and shout.  I have no idea what they are saying, but from the panicked look and the stern hand gestures, I decide it is best to slow down and get off the bike.  I was right.  We walk our bikes past the famous tiled Sanborn’s and into the heart of the city.  Like a good Mexican, Raul is quick to disregard the cops’ orders and in no time at all, is back on the bike again. 

There it is: Negro Disaster

I am thoroughly enjoying the bike through the heart of Mexico City…even if I am navigating busy streets and dodging pedestrians with handle-bars that are way too small for human hands.  I manage quite well.  I keep an eye to the right and left, in case anyone suddenly opens a car door or steps out from behind cars.  I scan the buildings lining the street looking at the wonderful old architecture and just the bountiful oddities that make up this place, like ‘Negro Disaster’. I know it is probably not smart, but riding down the street I see something that doesn’t seem right.  Did that bright pink and yellow sign just say what I thought it said?  I yell ahead to Raul to stop.  I turn my bike around and ride back into the line of taxis and cars coming down the street.  I pull my bike on the curb and pull out my camera. Yes, it is what I thought it was, a hip and happening store blaring loud music and hustling with avid buyers. ‘Negro Disaster’ When Raul gets close enough to see what I am doing, he too is a bit surprised and shakes his head and laughs at the name. Unbelievable.

Raul takes me through all these backstreets, and on to one which was recently made a pedestrian way.  I believe it was ‘Regina’.  This was strange.  People staring as we ride down the center of the street, there are numerous empty places and old decayed buildings with someone standing in the dark doorway, peering out at the passersby.  I ask why this street seems so odd, like it is trying to live but is already dead.  Raul explains that it was just converted and most people are not willing to come stroll down this once dodgy street.

We backtrack and wind through some more streets and find ourselves in the ‘music area’ of the city, where all the shops are blaring music and have flashing lights set up.  Every store has a name full of bravado, trying to outdo the other sound equipment salesman.  I do not understand the shop named ‘Holocaust’ though.  Doesn’t seem right gliding by and a giant PA pumping with flashing lights and disco balls spinning.  Raul takes a quick right and we are on a tight street.  It is loud and bodies bounce back and forth, in and out of the shops.  We pull into a small entryway and Raul says, “I want to show you this shop”  “Why?  What is the deal with this place?” I ask while he chains the bikes.  “It is a specialty record store” he says, and then he looks up smiling, “in high energy music”.  “Oh, you mean gay” I reply.  We walk in the small place and it is stuffed with records and in the opposite corner is stuffed a bunch of older me.  They look us up as we walk in, we smile and say hello.  I glance around the place.  The prices are outrageous but it looks OK otherwise.  Above the corner stuffed with older guys hangs a spinning disco ball.  Beside that and along the back wall are very bad paintings of Divine and other over-the-top icons.   I just don’t understand the Billy idol picture disc on the wall, or the Beatles records either.  Never thought those are proper fodder for the gay cannon. Ok, so I guess I just visited the spot for the gayest music in town.

View from where I was standing

We take off and work our way further eastward.  We get to a major street, November 20, and Raul stops his bike.  He points over the busy street, “I guess we should head up.  Everything else on that side of the street is just crap.  It gets bad pretty fast…not worth even looking at”  I am not up for riding into blatantly dangerous territory and neither is Raul.  This is when it obviously is good to be with a native.  We start peddling again and head up the major thoroughfare.  It isn’t long before Raul looks down and utters another loud “Shit!”  No way.  He stops and obviously frustrated, starts turning his back wheel.  “Can you believe it?  Another flat.  Two in one day, that must be an omen” he says.  Once again, Raul starts walking his bike and I do the combo slow peddle, push with foot routine.  After walking a bit I look ahead and there right in front is the beautiful Zocalo.  I had not noticed that this street ran straight into the center of it.  Then again, why should I know that, I am not from here?  It looks great, and so majestic.  The sight of the giant (and I mean GIANT) flag waving in the wind and the old church behind it is marvelous.  I ask Raul if we couldn’t catch a cab and shove the bikes in the trunk.  He says we can try.  As we are near the edge of Zocalo, he spots a cab at the light across the street.  He yells to get the cabbies attention and asks if he’s free.  We walk over and Raul unwinds the story to the guy.  He gets out and opens the trunk.  Raul says he will put the bikes in, but we may have to follow him in another cab.  As Raul starts to dismantle the bike, and slides it in the trunk, the cabbie shakes his head in agreement.  As the second bike is dismantled and I slide it in on top of the previous, the cabbie seems very pleased.  He says it is ok, and grabs a wheel from the front seat and hands it to me.  I do not know what he is saying, but he is obviously sure that the bikes and their front tires will fit in the trunk and we will be able to ride with him.

Raul and the cabbie put the finishing touches on

The bikes are loaded up and we start to make our way back to our starting point.  I understand enough to get that the driver and Raul are talking about the flat.  The cabbie asks if the tube was damaged and Raul tells him yes.  “Twice?” the cabbie asks?  Yes, and then they start off into that superfast Spanish at 100 mph and I just sit in the back and watch the city pass by.  Not near as nice as biking through it, but much better than walking all the way back through it!