After less than three hours of sleep, Truckee and I got up
at 3 am for our 6 am flight, anything for a bargain. We walked six blocks
through the Haight Ashbery with our luggage and promptly drove to the
airport. We had an uneventful flight to
Phoenix, then sat across the aisle from each other- at the emergency exit- (“You are equipped to
handle an emergency,” the flight steward stated humorlessly.)
I was fortunate to have seated on the other side a lively and attractive woman from southern California. We shared as pleasant a disagreement as I can imagine. Cecelia was an admitted Republican with ties to the oil business and I was “more liberal than Obama” blue stater. She was going to Mexico City for business and little time to play. We looked forward to ten days of busy recreation between Mexico City and San Miguel Allende.
A US Airways hairy landing deposited all of us on Mexican soil. The bureaucratic rigmarole of immigration, customs, baggage retrieval and check took about an hour and a half until we were spit out the exit and confronted by four taxi companies of Buona Fortuna, Integrity, Armarillo and Verde Cab. I chose Integrity and after reading multiple warnings about taxis, was sure we would be ripped off. Alas, it was an honest operation. Our driver got behind the flashing lights of the Policia and we were spirited across the gridlock of Mexico City at a much quicker pace than any auto.
I am sure that it had to do with the gritty neighborhoods that line the path from the airport to Centro Historico. Building in disrepair, broken windows, litter, miles of street vendors covered by tattered multicolored tarps- hoard of shoppers arms full of bargains. It was my first view of Mexico and Ciudad de Mexico.
Our Hotel- Ritz, built in 1930, was on the famous Marida
Francisco- just a block and a half from my infamous inlaw Iturbede. (More about
him, later) By the time we entered the cute room, both of us were on the verge
of total exhaustion. I managed to return
a couple of emails in my comatose state, but then laid down for about a half
hour of deep sleep. I was awaked by the strains of loud American 90s pop music. At first I thought it was coming from the
streets, but just below our window was the hotel dance floor with dozens
dancing and whooping it up to the music.
Motivated by the auditory ambiance and my short nap, we went
out looking for food- Hosteria de Santa Domingo “whipping up classic Mexican
fare since 1860”. True, it was a Monday,
but the place had four customers, two of whom looked like us- Gringos. I stuttered my way though ordering, but we
ended up having two classic dishes, mine a chicken ranchero and Truckee’s a
traditional beef dish with chilies, fruit and nuts, smothered in a white sauce
and pomegranate. The piano player played
intermittently familiar tunes- but unnameable pieces from the 30s and 40s. Two TVs added to decorative and ornate
surroundings. You will get an idea from the photo.
After dinner we walked down to the brightly decorated Zocolo
and central square. The square was
filled with massive slopes and snow runs- real snow (well, man-made snow). Large masses of adults and children filled the
square, many with new inflatable six foot candle sticks that they would hurl
into the air. (You had to be there. )
The stores windows were decorated, the streets filled with
people and large numbers of police in every direction. Some store had there own
security guards standing outside. But one non-descript enterprise, the guard
held a shot gun. I am wondering who that vendor pissed off.
This entry has become as wordy as some of my European journals.
What can I say? I am on the road again. And I am excited about traveling- even
with only 3 hours sleep.
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