The adrenalin began flowing at the Mexican airport, where the first impression was "wow, there are sure a lot of Mexicans down here.". We were deep in the heart of Mexico, deep in a state capital drenched in the colors of their flag - red, green and white. This was no silly border excursion, no weak Cancun trip (aka 'Florida warmed over and served with a Spanish accent'). This was the real thing, the nerve center of Mexico where the main economy isn't tourism. The natives here are a mix of Spanish and Indian and some are more one than the other. A pure Spaniard like our bartender at the Krystal bar ("we'll have the usual" meant two Corona's and a white wine) looked more like Ricardo Montelbon of Fantasy Island fame, while those of Indian heritage looked more like the "boss…boss…de plane! de plane!" guy. We met our avuncular host, Jacob, at the airport. He was loquacious and proud of his country, shown by his frequent disclaimers that most Mexicans are not "banditos" and by his intense interest in pre-modern Mexcian culture. Jacob reminded me a bit of Marty Brenaman - short of stature, never at a loss for words and perfectly coiffed hair.
Unlike Cortes, who came to Mexico City in the early 16th century by long and tortuous route, we arrived by plane (while complaining, of course, on how long it took). You could see the dense city of 25 million souls hemmed in by the mountains, like a big green skirt. Our foray into the foreign met us with foreign signs like "Que y Sabarro" and swarms of green VW bug taxis. Dense canyons of buildings covered the land till the reach of the mountains, at which point shacks and shanties sidled halfway up the hills, their inhabitant's laundry hanging out on rooftops suggesting a kind of exhibitionism or vulnerability.
Magically that Friday we descended into another time to an old church. There was a priest hearing a confession out in the open as if it were a common thing. I saw paintings of Jesus and Mary that seemed to exude an inexpressible warmth. There was an electricity in these beginnings, these firsts: like the first church, the first sight of the city, the first arrival to the hotel, the first meal. The hotel, Krystal Zona Rosa was very comfortable. The rooms had views and reports of Monteczuma's Revenge were greatly exaggerated. It turned out I could not only eat the ice but drink the water, at least in this hotel.
Friday night at the hotel we enjoyed dinner while a Mexican trio entertained us with Mexican standards like, "I am a Frito bandito" while strumming a few notes from "Smoke on the Water" between songs as if to say, "I'm cool." It was corny but fun. Mariachi's would not exist but for tourists, but I'm still glad they do.
We visited the Shrine at Los Remedios ("the Remedy") on Saturday just one day after the feast day (Sept. 1st) when 10,000 pilgrims come here for a celebration of Masses and devotionals and food and fireworks and high-wire acts. There was a little courtyard with various rooms containing religious articles and walls papered with petitions, prayers and pictures, all home-made. I'll not soon forget walking into that courtyard of glass-eyed Mexicans, staring impassively at us like we were visitors from Neptune. It was like a movie set and we were the "Three Amigos" wandering where we didn't belong, with our gaudy white skin, tennis shoes and money-laden wallets. I wanted to interact with the Mexicans and get a better sense of who they were, and what made some of them so pious. And what was it like to live without television and money? I bought a rosary at the shrine and asked the local padre to bless it. He looked like a tall Sancho Pancho and wore a white Dominican-like robe. He took a pine bough and dipped it in holy water and proceeded to brusquely bless the rosary and then me. Earlier, at Mass at Los Remedios I witnessed Mexicans with tears in their eyes. They appreciated the faith. It was by their example and the knowledge that soon I would be seeing the image of Our Lady of Gaudalupe that made me ask impulsively if the padre would hear my confession, with comic results.
"Could you hear my confession?"
Quizzical look ensued.
"…Confessiono?" I figured adding an "o" at the end might do the trick. Wasn't the Church supposed to be universal anyway?
"Jdkjfedkjdkjkjf," said the Padre in Spanish, or words to that effect.
"Hablo English?" I asked.
The good padre looked pained but concerned, and I was quite sorry by this time that I had brought the whole thing up. We seemed to have reached a stalemate, and I started to back away saying, "that's okay", although I realized immediately the inanity of that - I could've said, "free spaghetti!" for all he knew. He didn't leave me off the hook and instead came over and warmly led me by the hand out into the courtyard searching all around. Finally he found Jacob and I understood he was to translate.
"I just asked if he could hear my confession," I told Jacob. Jacob said some Spanish words back out at the good Friar and then Jacob to me laughing, "I hear your confession. You tell me!".
I found out that mixing with another culture while expecting them to speak your language is a bit ludicrous. You are invisible to the natives if you can't speak the language. I tried the previous night to buy a generic Mexican CD and tape from street vendors. Two notions were quickly disavowed: one, that English was everybody's second language and two, that anyone in the world would take the safe, strong U.S. dollar. Apparently street vendors aren't interested in the hassles of currency conversion and aren't worried about offending that vast untapped American tourist market.
Over the length of the trip we visited at least ten churches. All of them were beautiful though markedly different. The Cathedral at Zocala Square was a feast for the eyes of epic proportions. Ornate gold altars and side altars repeated like endless eaves of finely decorated libraries. The Cathedral was dark, magisterial and and not for impressionable young children. It's immensity and brilliance represented the justice of God and the power of God. It illustrated the gospel account of Mary Magdelan pouring expensive oils on Christ's feet, or the story of the wise men and their gifts of gold and myrrh. Another church, Juan Diego's uncles', was the oppposite. It was light, and airy and simple. There were no reliquaries but an easiness and it emphasized the accounts of Christ riding on a donkey and being born in a manger and God's gentleness and mercy. The yin and the yang….
We went for a walk that night and had a pair of Corona's at a bar with live Mexican music and looked for beggars to give pesos to. The next morning we visited the Aztec pyramids of the Sun and the Moon. We scrambled up to the top for a magnificent view of the whole mixed-up crazy valley where Indians sacrificed up to 20,000 of their best athletes and prettiest virgins. Now we make them homecoming kings and prom queens…(hmm…given the hubris of the former, maybe the Indians were right!) A group of us younger folk trekked up the Pyramid of the Sun though the view turned out to be only mediocre.
Zocala Square is second in size only to Red Square in Moscow. The imposing square is surrounded by gargoyle'd buildings and one expected to see a bullfighter or matador at any moment. Zocala felt foreign - it pulsated with foreignness. At one end loud opera music blared, at the other side there was a maniacal Indian drumming. The place felt like the setting of a lost empire or somewhere Indiana Jones would feel at home. The square was equal parts danger - full of rogue tour guides and pick-pocketing banditos - and glamour, with pistole-toting police guarding the Mexican treasures from American riff-raff. I clambored up the stairs to a sumptuous room only to receive a curt, "no moleste!". I said, "Vamous?" and he said, "si". Later, at the bottom of the stairs, I offered a "Beunes Dios" (good day) at a stiff-necked policeman and received my first 'gracias'. It was then I knew I'd connected with the Mexican people and was now one of them. Some of the policemen (and there were many around the city) appeared a bit comical-looking, like Idi Amins only not as dark or malevolent. We had jettisoned the group when it became clear that Jacob was becoming long-winded at the Palace Nationale. The fabulous murals of the Palace were stunning and encyclopedic but the severe time period alloted to the square made 'hurry-travel' necessary.
The biggest disappointment of the trip came later with the two interminable hours at the Anthropology Museum. They say enthusiasm is catching, but our group seemed to catch none of Jacob's excitement and I felt bad for him. Enthusiasm, like an airline ticket, is apparently non-transferable. His interest in long-ago remnants of ancient Mexican civilizations struck me as a wholesome hobby, but not one I could readily share.
The next day we loaded up the bus and headed for the reason we came - Guadalupe. We were so used to seeing copies of the image of Guadalupe that when we walked into the actual Bascilica we had no idea we were looking at the real thing. Mass was far in back and because of the immense crowds we came back the next day for the real visit. By then we were aware of the pedigree of the image and it was with a greater sense of awe that I entered the church. After Mass we went to the back of the altar and took a moving sidewalk by the image a few times. There was that feeling that here, finally, we were seeing a real thing - something God intended and something from heaven.
Our last trip was that couple hours at a Mexican mart, where I bought two drinking frogs with sombero's (very kitschy), a billfold and a t-shirt.
