The wonders of Mexico City.

Living in México City is fairly surreal.

I've come to such a conclusion after six years of living here. Of course, I HAD realized it before, but it wasn't until Dominik asked me about life here that I began to mull over it much more closely.

Truth is, my life is hardly ever linear or common; usually, all sorts of odd things happen to me on an almost daily basis, be it because of my unique personality or because some sort of omni-powerful, omnipresent being seems to drop cute little plot twists when I'm around. Maybe (probablemente) I just have the capacity to stumble rather ungracefully into the most unorthodox of situations.

Whatever.

Point is, I might just be biased because no matter what I do, or where I go, I always manage to add yet another odd story into my accumulating repertoire. Yet, though I've had my share of experiences in New York, Illinois, Canada and some bits of Europe, I still find day to day life in Mexico City to be absolutely, unabashedly, unerringly, (I could go on and on...) surreal.

I guess it's not so difficult to imagine surrealism in a city that, in full metropolitan extension, happens to be the largest in the western hemisphere and second worldwide, with a population of over 19 million (Wikipedia is oh-so useful. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mexico_city ).

Still, day to day life is more than a bit hectic. We get lots of manifestations, all day long, in any random moment, in any odd corner of the city, for any reason. It's most usual to find traffic blocked somewhere, or avenues closed, or suddenly see a bunch of people jump out of nowhere and run towards your car with no previous warning. In fact, we probably get about 5 days with no manifestations all year long.

Really.

Take the Peje for example: after losing the presidential elections in a rather obscure way (pero si los fraudes electorales son una tradición mexicana por excelencia, a true patriotic tradition, no sé por qué hacer tanto escándalo), he proceeded to set a camp on the Zócalo and Reforma Avenue for a couple of months. He literally had entire families living in makeshift crate beds while he, very happily, kept on living in his Copilco apartment.

That’s a true Man of State if I ever saw one. One who always puts the people before himself.

But on a much more personal note, I found myself in a … interesting … situation while going to work one day. I wore my cute beige heels, (las que parecen patitos, Rose) and when I tried to get on the Metrobus found that Insurgentes was closed off, and that the nearest working station, Insurgentes, was two stops away, which is about 15 minutes on foot.

Now, normally, I love walking (took a special like to it after spraining my ankle and using crutches for two weeks), but I happened to be late for work (como siempre) and I was WEARING HEELS.

Not only that, but I happened to walk through a throng of naked men protesting in Insurgentes. It wasn’t quite the rewarding experience – the 400 Pueblos are not exactly model material. Rather, I had to make my way as quickly as I could while wearing heels amongst a swarm of naked middle aged men who sure could have used a bath, some waxing, a couple of sessions at a gym and deodorant, at the very least.

While they were somewhat respectful and didn’t actually cat call, it was still mighty uncomfortable to avoid the “friendlier” young nude ones. I resorted to putting on my headphones, turning the volume as high as it would go and walked determinedly forward, ignoring everything else –naked or clothed- on my path, singing the Hot Chips’ Over and Over until I reached the Insurgentes station.

After that, I got the particular pleasure of seeing them parade around naked daily on Insurgentes while on the Metrobus for about a month. Seeeeee.

And people wonder why so many Mexicans were willing to participate on Spencer Tunick’s massive nude photograph on the Zócalo. It’s a fairly common occurrence to see naked folks (both male and female) run around our avenues for one cause or another.

And that is just one example of abnormality. Another time, for example, it had rained all day long, and by night, around 2 A.M., it was still pouring. Apparently, there were a couple of guys drinking outside the building in front of my apartment complex, which is something that happens regularly, so I paid them no mind.

Yet, when someone started singing opera, that changed. I was surprised at first, so I kind of just looked around trying to figure out what was going on and went into the room and turned to my little brother, who was playing a game on the computer.

-Juan, ¿Is it just me or is it opera I’m hearing?

He didn’t even look my way. –Sí, es ópera.

I was surprised. -How odd. They must be REALLY drunk if they decided to listen to opera.

He was still engrossed in the game. –No, un tipo está cantando.

-Huh?

So Juan finally turned from the computer and explained. Apparently, they weren’t listening to opera on the radio. Some drunk guy was singing O Sole Mio in the wee hours of the morning in the middle of a dangerous, problematic and crappy neighbourhood in Mexico City while we had a mild tropical rainstorm on us. And he was rather good, too.

-No mames. ¿O sea que un wey se puso a cantar O Sole Mio aquí, en esta colonia; ahorita, en la madrugada; con todo y lluvia casi torrencial; mientras él y sus amiguitos se emborrachan?

Ok, so I had a bit of a difficulty believing it.

-Yeah. Look out.- And he turned back to the game.

So I did. And yes, some drunk guy WAS singing O Sole Mio in my neighbourhood, at 2 in the morning, while getting wasted during a storm.

And he WAS good.

-Canta bien.

Juan did turn to see me briefly, pensive, for that one.-Yeah.

And I lost him to Age of Mythology again.


Not quite a serenade, I guess.