Bienvenidos a Mexico
Mexico City, 11:30 pm. Our windows open onto the city street, Isabel de Catolico, and the sounds of traffic, catcalls and the persistent jackhammering, despite the hour, of a nearby construction crew. Hotel Isabel, is located in the Centro Historico and not far from the bus station we'll need tomorrow to head down to Oaxaca. No complaints about travel today. No flight delays, no bags gone missing, no hassles at the aeropuerto Benito Juarez. Hiring a cab is pretty straightforward here if you go with an authorized company. Walk up to the window just outside the terminal exit, tell the woman behind the glass where you're going, and pay a flat fee. Jenna and I were escorted to a large Ford Econoline van. It took us a minute to realize we would be the only passengers. Guilty feeling tree hugging global warming believing Americans. It doesn't take long to get over all that at 110 km/h on the crowded city streets. Safety conscious Americans, of course, we found our seatbelts.
On the way across town we smelled onions cooking and fried fish, and those smelled delicious. Driving like in the Middle East, only en Espanol. Our driver raced along, pushing the van up against little Puegots and motorcycles, ignoring the well-posted 60 km/h signs on the crowded streets, flashing highbeams at pedestrians far ahead who might mistakenly assume they have time to cross. Our taxi van bears down on two police officers and flashes brights on them the same as anybody else. Cruising the streets, braking hard, riding on top of the cars in front of us, even laying into the curves where signs warn "Conserve Su Velocidad"; Watch Your Speed. Jenna finally breaks her silence to show off some of her good Spanish: "Senor! Cuidado por favor!? Muchos gracias." Sir! Careful please!? Thank you very much.
At a stoplight men come out to wash car windows, ignoring the taxi. A shirtless fire breather sips a little fuel and steps out in the lanes between cars, blowing great bursts of flame once, twice, three times and a sputtering fourth, then puts his matches away and walks up and down the rows of waiting cars looking for pesos. Green light, round the corner--fast--and there are two whores in a doorway, one heavy and tattooed, the other in black fishnets all the way to her thong. Across the street a group of 18 or 20 men simply wait, some leaning back against the wall painted in popular logos, others on the curb ready to step out. At the speed we travel, even after Jenna's cautious request, the images are there and gone in an instant.
Hotel Isabel is old, comfortable enough, quite clean. The bed is small but firm, and it's probably the latter that matters most to me, because in a soft bed we'd just sag our way to the middle no matter how big the thing was. We've got a private bath, all in tile with a curtain across the back third for a shower. I love the plain utility of it. The room is thirty dollars, pretty rich for a budget listing, but fine by us tonight. We'll have to thank Aunt Emily for sending us down with enough pesos to cover the cab ride and our first night. The restaurant served chilequiles con pollo because we asked for it, not knowing what it was, and chips with avacado. The guacamole was excellent: rich, savory, spicy. The chilequiles turned out to be more chips, served wet, smothered in hot green chile and topped with shredded chicken, half a tub of sour cream and ample crumbles of rubbery, mildly yeasty white cheese. This after I declared in the car this morning, on the way to the airport, "The thing about authentic Mexican food is that you can order a whole meal and not see any dairy, whereas in the States anything you order is likely to have sour cream and cheese all over it." How could I have known? I've never been to Mexico before tonight, but that doesn't stop me from speaking with authority. Will have to find out if the cheese and sour cream are on account of the turistas.
That's enough for now. I've got the sweet sound of jackhammers to lull me to sleep. More from Oaxaca.
Tags: Mexico City, Hotel Isabel
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